Into the Void: Tales of Unwise Expeditions and Other Mistakes
by Decimk
Summary: The futuristic misadventures of a trigger-happy bounty hunter, a wandering merchant prince, a self-proclaimed mad scientist, a fastidious space captain, and a dog. The Dragon Age characters you know and love in a reimagined Thedas, where interplanetary travel is fuelled by lyrium and the Fade is a quantum realm that plagues the lonely space explorer.
1. V - I

**_Content warning: _**_Nothing extreme or explicit, but some mature themes will be explored. There will be occasional swearing and mention of sexual activity._

**_Relationships: _**_I love writing relationships and they play a big role here, but no particular one will be the primary focus and the nature of them might change over time. If you're looking for a straightforward ship of particular characters, you probably won't find it here._

**_Schedule: _**_Due to life being a thing, updates might be slow from time to time. While I don't expect something this niche to gain a big following, I enjoy writing it a lot. If updates seem slow, don't be alarmed — it will continue._

_With all that out of the way... Enjoy, and I hope to see you in the reviews! A lot of time and effort goes into writing and feedback is always much appreciated!_

* * *

On the edge of the solar system, a slow-moving vessel signalled its existence with a single light flashing on its port bow. It had a name as well, but the lettering spelling it out had long worn off. No one had bothered to restore it. Anyone who already knew how to find the ship did not need it. Anyone who did not have the contacts to learn its trajectory, likely wouldn't be welcome anyway.

The ship was followed by a fleet of assorted smaller vessels at any given time. Some were semi-permanent fixtures, others came and went. They matched the craft's speed and course for the duration of their stay, while their crews hopped between the flagship and their own.

The ship's belly was rounded like a zeppelin. Its back extended into a balcony, which gave access to an aperture door. After passing through the airlock, the silence of space was obliterated by the cacophony of the room beyond. Footsteps formed a beat on the sheet metal floor. Competing voices tried to draw the attention of potential buyers. Sizzling bangs and whirring machinery flooded the soundscape. Drones with fluorescent lights hovered above, alternately illuminating half of the chaos while shrouding the rest in shadow. Rows of stalls spanned the space — side by side, back to back. Not an inch was wasted, leaving the visitors to bob and weave between the traders peddling their wares.

Sharp-eared, lanky types pushed the same authentic relics as the guy three stalls over. Short, stocky folk bargained fiercely over their spinning gizmos and scrap metal parts. A couple of ox-like people laughed heartily as they showed off new gun designs and explosive samples. Men and women from the various colonies sold dehydrated food, apparel, medical supplies and anything in between.

Straight across from the entrance, near the apex of the vaulted ceiling, a large office overlooked the hall. The window reached from wall to wall and top to bottom, giving anyone inside a bird' s-eye view of the commotion beneath. Close to the window stood a set of comfortable leather couches, centred around a low coffee table with a black, glass top that reflected the swaying lights outside. Multiple bookcases lined the walls on either side, each filled to the brim with works from across the sector. On the far end of the room, facing the window, stood a large mahogany desk — by now, one of its kind.

It was here that the owner of the wandering trading post sat, poring over long lists of numbers by the sheen of a flickering bulb. He rapped the lamp sharply without looking up from his work, the metal of his hand ringing clearly against that of the stand. The light stabilised for a minute then died out. He gave it a reprimanding glare. Before he could punish it further, however, his attention was drawn to the display on the wall behind it.

The regular programming, showcasing the various bounties that were currently up for grabs, had been interrupted by an emergency broadcast. Even with the sound turned off, the visual was informative enough. A blue flash had cut across the picture, briefly lighting up the void. A string of short explosions followed, dying quickly and sending shrapnel propelling in all directions. Based on the time code displayed in the top, the footage was a few hours old. Text crawled along the bottom of the screen, describing the havoc the debris was currently causing on the planet below.

"Well," the man murmured, "Shit."

The door to the office opened. A hulk of a figure stepped inside, ducking low to fit his curved horns through the entryway. The man behind the desk had offered to enlarge the entrances, which were more suited to his shorter-than-average stature, but the other had refused. It seemed he enjoyed living in an environment not designed for someone his size — it made him look bigger.

He carried several crates of liquor and put them down in the corner with surprising gentility. The ox-man then stretched his arms overhead, hands the size of trashcan lids easily reaching to the ceiling.

"You seeing this, Boss?" he asked, nodding at the screen.

"I see it, Bull."

"Pretty messed up." The giant named Bull walked towards the television. "Heard some folks talking of it downstairs. They say someone crashed a ship into it."

"Rather a rigorous way of making a point," the boss murmured.

He looked away from the newscast and to a smaller display on his desk. With quick swipes, he flicked through the information — flashes of news from the various planets, calendars of events, weather reports. He halted on Ferelden, the site of the attack. Its primary landmass was currently in the middle of springtime, celebrating a week-long festival. With any luck, the station would have been mostly empty. Perhaps, if he dared to give credit to someone who would commit such an act, they had planned it as such.

The broadcast ended, and the network returned to its regular programming. The _Bounty Hunt _hosts mimed their sorrowful responses to the newsflash, then diverted themselves by returning to the topic at hand. They gestured to the large screen behind them, which showed a hefty reward amount plastered across the computer-generated image of a dark-haired woman. Bull huffed at the likeness, which did little justice to the original.

"Bela's gonna be pissed when she sees that," he said with a rumbling chuckle, "They messed up her nose again."

"She can add it to her collection," the boss replied. "Keep an ear open about this attack, Bull. Something this big is unlikely to leave us unaffected."

"Sure thing. On that note, she's downstairs at the moment."

"Again, or still?"

"Still — she's alone. Can't find anyone who knows who she is or where she came from. I guess she hitched a ride in someone's cargo to get here without them even noticing."

Boss got up from his chair. He stepped out of the office and unto an elevated walkway, his boots clunking hollow on the metal grid. The familiar sounds of a chattering crowd, clinking glass, and the smooth notes of saxophone and strings drifted up to greet him. He took a deep breath, smoke and the scent of alcohol tingling in his nostrils, and sighed in satisfaction. Of everything he'd built, this was his favourite part.

The blue and purple neon hummed in the dark, highlighting the stage and the bar while obscuring the patrons. The band was playing a mellow tune to accompany the velvety sound of the singer, who glanced up at his appearance. Her red hair shone brilliantly in the spotlight, her long dress was as black as the void outside. Boss inquired after her night with a nod. She answered with a wink, then returned her attention to the audience.

As usual, the club was full of people — drinking, gambling, and doing other things they soon wouldn't remember. They sat around the stage at small tables with plush seating, designed to facilitate prolonged comfort and excessive consumption. For those seeking more privacy, there were the lower floors, accessible via a winding staircase leading down from the corner of the room. For some, they provided a break from their crews. For others, the company to alleviate the loneliness of longer journeys. All, of course, at a competitive price.

While it was a persistent myth that pirates buried their treasure, that didn't make it any more valid. Like anyone else, they spent it. Primarily, they spent it here.

At the bar, her face shrouded behind short locks of raven hair, sat a woman. Though she was surrounded by people, her stance ensured that she was alone. She had arrived a fortnight ago, but they hadn't uncovered much about her. Any attempts by the staff at engaging her had been met with sarcastic retorts and very little information.

"Anything new?"

"Quite a bit." Bull leaned on the bannister to be at eye level with his employer. "Red received a relatively warm welcome." He nodded towards the singer. "But she still didn't get any information out of her. Sent one of my boys in a couple of days ago to try his charms on her. He ended up with his arm twisted behind his back and his face on the bar."

"Unless you've got more than that, I suppose our definitions of 'quite a bit' must differ."

Though the eye patch he wore could make Bull hard to read at times, it did nothing to hide the smirk pulling across his face. "She's had combat training," he said smugly, "and you owe me a hundred."

"Ah…" he said softly. "Do I now?" He spun his ring, a plain brass band, around his finger. "I see. Good work. Take it from the account and bring her up, will you?"

Bull nodded and made for the stairs. His boss went back inside and strolled to the window, evaluating the possibilities brought on by this bit of news. He heard his right-hand man return soon after, accompanied by the offended tones of a young woman's voice. Her steps were light, barely audible next to Bull's as he ushered her inside. It reminded him of a cat. When the door closed behind them, drowning out the sound from downstairs, she quickly fell silent like one as well.

He welcomed her with a smile. Her jaw tightened in response, but she did little else to return it. He wasn't bothered by her presence on board, not as long as she settled her bill. Instead, he'd been rather intrigued. Seeing her staring daggers at him from across the room, radiating defiance like an angry furnace, only piqued his curiosity further.

She was tall and somewhat curvy, though leaner built than he preferred. The shapes of her upper body were masked by a black bomber jacket, the collar of which was lined with grey fur. The rest of her outfit, tight denim trousers and knee-high boots with integrated magnets, was similarly dark in tone. Anything to reduce attention to herself and blend into the background, he guessed. Unfortunately for her, her fair skin and piercing blue eyes likely made that impossible most of the time. Despite her best efforts, she was the type one would notice as soon as she entered a room.

"What do you want?" she demanded, speaking in the accent-less dialect of someone raised on a station.

"Nothing to be worried about," he asserted, holding up his hands. The woman's eyes flashed to his left arm, which gave off a slight hydraulic hiss as it moved. "I just wanted to have a little chat with you."

"I'm not one for chatting."

"So it would seem. After two weeks aboard I usually know everything about anyone who walks in here and their mother. Throw in their second cousin, college roommate and exhaust cleaner, if they have 'em. You, however, remain a mystery."

"You're one to talk," she countered, crossing her arms, "Two weeks aboard and all I know is there's some guy named 'V' running the place. I assume that's you? Don't you have anything better to do than send your goons to investigate every random traveller who comes through here?" She cast a reproachful glance at Bull.

"Gathering information may seem like a waste of time to you, but it is the most valuable commodity in stock here," the man who was indeed V pointed out. "Now, most travellers are here for either pleasure or business, yet you appear interested in neither. Instead, you sit at my bar in your shroud of gloom and drink away its contents at an agonisingly slow pace."

"As long as I pay for it, I fail to see how that is any of your concern."

"It's not. Yet, while I agree my establishment is perfect for drinking your life away, I can't help but think you might want to do something more fulfilling."

She considered him, eyes narrowing, but didn't speak.

"How about we start by getting to know each other?"

He sat down on one of the couches and gestured for her to take the other. Another moment of silence reigned until she unfolded her arms and sauntered over. She sat down, leaned back, recrossed her arms and tossed one leg over the other. Something flashed on the inside of her calf, signalling the blade hidden in her boot. He didn't allow weapons on board. She'd managed to sneak this one in, and she wanted him to know. He smiled to himself.

"My name is Varric," he offered, "Tethras. What's yours?"

"… Hawke."

"Anything else to go with that?"

"No."

"Okay."

He scratched his chest, but she didn't take the bait. Her gaze remained fixed on his face, ignoring the deep v-neck that tended to elicit some kind of response — good or bad — out of most women.

"Well then, Hawke, what are your plans?" he asked. "Considering you don't seem to have a ship or a crew, your funds will likely run dry before my supply of alcohol does."

"They might." A hint of a smile quirked at the corner of her mouth. "I figured I'd run up a tab and stowaway before you'd realised."

"You'd be cheating yourself out of a chance to come back here."

"Maker forbid."

He chuckled. "For argument's sake, let's say I won't come after you for this hypothetical tab. What would you do next?"

"I'll figure it out as I go," she shrugged.

"Indeed," he murmured, pressing his fingertips together. "And the greater purpose in drifting through the galaxy like this? Sightseeing?"

Hawke pursed her lips and looked away. Though he couldn't see much of her skin, the burn mark across her nose and webs of scars on her hands suggested she'd been through some hairy situations. He'd wager her trust was not likely to be easily earned.

"I… dropped out of training," she admitted. "Couple of months ago. I figured I should disappear for a while."

"Well, you've come to the right place for that. Pilot or engineer?"

A hint of danger flashed in her eyes. One of her hands moved to the collar on her jacket and habitually pulled it closer against her neck.

"Bull here saw your implant when you tossed one of his boys onto the bar," Varric explained. "You've got a bit of a temper, you know?"

Hawke glared at him, then huffed a laugh. "Fine." She lifted her chin. "Trained as a pilot, but I've learned my way around an engine room. What's it to you?"

"Oh, it's everything to me," he smirked, cocking his head to the side. "A good Catalyst is hard to come by. I am always on the lookout."

"How do you know I'm good? You know nothing about me."

"I know what it must have taken to leave everything behind and make it here in one piece. However you did it, it means you have the kind of skills I need."

"Need for what?"

"Just the odd job here and there… simple enough. Pickup and delivery, mainly."

"Debtors?"

Bull chuckled from his position by the door. "No," Varric said, shaking his head. "I have enough people for that. For you, I have things in mind that require a bit more… finesse."

He paused for effect. Her next response would determine whether she was, indeed, the person he hoped she might be. Most people had called him crazy for even suggesting what he was about to ask of her. Then again, most people wouldn't have made it here alone, especially not a Catalyst running from the authorities.

"I'd like you to go into the Belt," he said casually, "Discreetly."

"The Belt?" Her brow quirked up. "Lyrium then?"

"Not exactly. I can't reveal all my information until you agree, as I'm sure you can understand."

"Fair enough…" She studied him. While she'd been wary before, now she was scrutinising. Despite him being the one recruiting her, suddenly he felt like he was the one on display. "Something big though, I imagine, if you're considering going there," she mused. "You trust that to a random Catalyst who walks into your bar?"

"You say that as if it's an everyday occurrence," he laughed, "The Chantry usually keeps a pretty tight lid on your lot. Here, let me explain."

He leaned forward to press the hidden panel on the coffee table. It clicked open, revealing the controls. After a few button presses, the surface of the table lit up, turning the black mirror into a vivid display.

A highly detailed simulation of the solar system came into view. The two blazing suns lazily revolved around each other in the centre, while all planets, moons, stations, gates, and any manner of man-made debris circled them in turn. Border patrols were marked with red dotted lines, trade routes in blues and greens. The station that had been on the news before still hung happily in Ferelden's orbit, the third planet from the second sun. The event of its destruction hadn't made it into all databases yet.

"We are here," Varric said, pointing out the icon representing his ship. Hawke leaned in slightly to look at it. "The target…" He tapped one of the larger asteroids in the Boeric Belt. The route between the two points appeared automatically with a white line. "… is here."

"Those patrols would be an issue," Hawke observed, eyeing its trajectory. "You'll want to go in with a stealth vessel."

"Exactly, and the trip through the Belt is a tricky one."

"I could do it," she stated, her confidence briefly overtaking her reservations.

"Then you are interested?"

She caught herself and slid back into her seat. "Perhaps. What do I get out of it?"

"Protection," he said easily, "As long as you work for me, no one will touch you. Plus a ten per cent cut from the job."

"That's not much of a cut."

"Oh, I'm sorry. Do you have many competing offers?"

She wasn't impressed. "Thirty."

"Fifteen," he smirked. "But I'll make you a deal. Work with me for a year. After we're done, you get to keep the ship. You'd be free to go wherever you want."

A deep frown creased her forehead. She glanced at the room around her, at Bull, out the window, back at him. The interior of his office was primarily designed for his comfort, less so to impress visitors. It was only on rare occasions that he brought them here since most of his business was conducted in the bar. He wondered if the surroundings were enough to convince her of his worth.

"You can keep the Chantry off my back?" she inquired sceptically.

"I can."

She huffed through her scarred nose. "How? They don't let go of Catalysts so easily."

"If you know the right people — and you will, when you have me on your side — they won't be able to take you back," he assured her. "Not legally. If they try another way… well, I can help with that as well."

Hawke leaned in, fixing him with a steely gaze. "Prove it."

"You want a guarantee?" he asked innocently, "I'm not sure I can give you one. We work based on mutual trust here — I need to believe you won't simply take off with one of my ships."

"I'd be in trouble as soon as I am out of fuel," she contended, "You, however, can string me along for as long as you need me. Show me you can deliver, or find someone else."

Varric rubbed his stubbled chin, assessing risk versus potential reward. Catalysts _didn't _waltz onto his ship every day — an unfortunate reality of the current system. While it wasn't impossible to find them outside of Chantry control, most would go into hiding on planets or get captured by pirate crews. Of course, while their abilities were always an asset, they were no guarantee for wit or strength of character. Despite her air of self-assurance, this girl was cautious. It signalled a certain level of intelligence, at least, which he appreciated. But while his offer was certainly not without danger, neither was continuing to take her chances alone. Most would jump at such an opportunity, even if it was a bargain for him, and yet… he didn't doubt that she was ready to walk if he didn't make a few concessions in return.

"Very well," he decided, clapping his hands together. "Look over there." He dug the remote out from between the couch cushions and pointed it at the television. The sound came on, letting the blaring voices of the hosts into the room.

"Look at that face, Josephine," the male host said to his colleague. He gestured at the screen beside him, which showed the picture of a large, dark-skinned man with white hair glaring at the camera. "That is the face of a killer."

"How very unpleasant, Thom," she replied, "Let's hope the good bounty hunters out there will catch up with him soon. Capture is preferred, dear hunters, but the Chantry urges caution in approaching this target."

"Indeed, indeed. On to the next one, a familiar face." The render of Bela, based on second- and thirdhand accounts, slid into view once more with a bounce. "Captain Isabela, the scourge of the sector. She's been sighted again, folks. Start your engines — the price on this one is hefty indeed."

"Why am I looking at this?" Hawke asked dully.

"Would be wise to pay attention to it," Varric murmured, fiddling with the communications interface integrated into his arm. "You might show up there any moment if they don't find you soon. Just keep watching."

"I have to say, Thom, there is something romantic about her, isn't there?" Josephine cooed. "No harm ever befalls the crews she targets. Many report… quite positively about their encounters with her."

"She is a criminal, Josephine," the male host said sternly, a little affronted by her swooning over the pirate queen, "One who has thwarted the Chantry time and again — hence the high reward."

"Oh, but the thought of someone so beautiful, flying through the sector… Did you know her ship is called the _Siren's Call_? The image that brings to mind —"

Her musings were interrupted by the screen flashing from red to blue. The letters changed from 'WANTED' to 'CAPTURED', and the reward amount disappeared. The sound of trumpets played in the background, accompanying the sad sizzle of the sparklers lighting up on either side of the display.

"Oh," Josephine said with sagging shoulders. "Seems like she's been caught."

"It would appear so," Thom stated, much happier. "Good riddance! Congratulations to the bounty hunter who made that capture. Enjoy your reward, you've done Thedas a great service! Now, on to the next —"

The sound muted again at the press of a button and Hawke turned back towards him. "You had her captured?"

"No," he chuckled, "I had her status changed in the Chantry database. Like I said, you need to know the right people."

"You'll have me listed as captured?"

"I won't have you listed at all if I can help it. Can't do it with that one," Varric explained, nodding to Bela's picture still on screen, "She makes herself far too visible. In your case, we'll need to make your departure legitimate, and they won't be able to do a thing."

Finally, he had her full attention. Hawke bit her bottom lip, her blue eyes near slits. They scanned him in a slow sweep — assessing the scuff marks on his boots, the sheer exposition of his chest, his bionic appendix, and the sincerity behind his most charming smile. He could see her weighing the pros and cons, running the possible outcomes through her mind.

"You'll give me a ship?"

"You can have your pick," he confirmed. "Don't want you heading into the Belt in any old thing."

Her lips curved into a fearless smirk, dangerous in its appeal. "Alright." She extended her hand. "One year."

Though he would rarely admit it to others, Varric knew well that he was a man of many flaws. It could be said that trusting people too easily was one such a shortcoming. He took her hand, finding her grip firm but not tense. The blue eyes looked straight into his, making him the silent promise that she would ensure he kept his. Perhaps it was foolish to take her on, considering what little he knew of her. Yet in a world where everyone knew everything about anyone, that lack of information only spoke in her favour. A small voice in the back of his mind warned him against liking this girl too much too quickly, though he could tell something about her would leave him little choice.

"Deal," he said, shaking her hand. "One year."

Despite his inner voice's objections, he was looking forward to it.


	2. Dorian - I

A lifetime of hard work will not guarantee anyone remembering your name once it's over. Yet make one small planet uninhabitable by accident, and you will never hear the end of it.

The light came on all over New Minrathous, signalling the start of the day. It streamed through the porthole windows of the military quarters, illuminating a small, starkly furnished room. In other, more affluent parts of the station, the lamps would simulate a sunrise, slowly increasing their warm glow for a gentle awakening. Here the sudden beam cut into the room like a laser, falling straight upon the face of a man who was in no state to receive it.

Dorian tossed an arm over his head in self-defence. He opened one eye, glared at the curtain-less window, then at the person next to him. The man was lying on his side, facing away from him. His back was broad, and his shoulders well defined. Between them, at the top of his spine, a metal disc protruded from his skin. The implant was dull in the harsh light, the socket in its centre a black hole. Dorian observed it, amazed at how he had not noticed it last night. Then again, the entire encounter was something of a blur.

He let his fingers hover over it without touching. Something about them continued to be disquieting. Perhaps because he'd seen firsthand how painful the procedure was. Or maybe the fact that the seemingly innocuous ring doomed anyone who carried it to a life of mediocrity. Most likely, it was the lingering sense of guilt that he'd been lucky enough to avoid that fate himself. Though at times he'd been on the verge of renouncing his family name altogether, at least it still carried enough weight for that.

His companion seemed undisturbed by the artificial dawn and continued to sleep. He supposed the man was used to less privacy and more serious disturbances than this. It had been a while since he'd been aboard a ship himself, but he had not missed the cramped style of living for a moment. He pushed himself up, reaching for his temple as pain flared behind his eyes. It had been a good evening then… how bad the morning was tended to be a reliable indicator of that.

He got up and wandered over to the bathroom, turned on the shower, and leaned his head against the wall. The water tempered his headache and rushed down his body, washing away whatever filth the night had left behind. He missed being able to take a bath… perhaps he should find a way onto a transport soon. Ferelden was currently in spring-time, though he doubted the plebeians had any proper facilities. Parts of Orlais had to be pleasant as well, but he didn't consider himself desperate enough to go there quite yet.

The water dripped on the metal floor with sharp _plinks_ when he stepped out of the shower. He wrapped a towel around his waist and walked over to the mirror. A man in his mid-twenties looked back at him, one with a dark complexion and grey eyes. His skin was more ashen than when he'd still been on the surface — perhaps he'd work on the observation deck today for a boost. He dried his hair and spent some time pushing it in the right direction, as well as twisting his moustache into an upwards curl. Fortunately, he'd gotten a decent night of sleep. Depending on what came today, he didn't know how long it would be until the next.

"Felix?"

He groaned softly… the tone of his voice was far too expecting. At least he hadn't given him his actual name. It wouldn't have been the first time he'd made that mistake while being drunk. Sadly, another problem loomed this morning. He searched his memory, but came back empty-handed — he had no idea what the guy's name was supposed to be, of whether he'd even bothered to find out. Dorian sighed, bracing himself against the sink, then conjured a smile.

"Yes?"

"Ah… I thought you'd left."

The man appeared behind him in the mirror. He'd put on his trousers, but not the rest of his uniform. The front of him was as well put together as the back — he was tall and muscular, with a pretty face and sleek blond hair that reached to his shoulders. Dorian was faintly relieved at the appearance. At least no matter how wasted he got, he didn't let his standards drop too low. The Orlesian accent wasn't his favourite but didn't come as a surprise either. Of all factions in the sector, they were the most open to quick encounters like this one.

Pretty Blond walked over, wrapped his arms around his waist, and pressed a kiss to the back of his neck. Dorian suppressed a shiver, gently took the man's hands off him and turned around, pushing back lightly to create some distance. He wanted him to get out of here, preferably soon.

"I do need to get going." He smiled apologetically. "I am rather busy today, I'm afraid."

"Oh… alright." The blond looked faintly dejected, which annoyed him. "You said you're in broadcasting, right?"

"Yes," Dorian nodded, wondering what else he'd decided he was in yesterday. "Talent management. I have casting meetings all day long — I'm not even sure I'll have time to eat."

"Right… I mean, I should get going too. I need to report for duty at seven."

"Oh, dear, you better hurry then. The station does get congested in the morning with everyone trying to get back to their crews."

The man, whom he guessed hadn't been out of training for long, looked shocked at this news. "Really?"

Dorian nodded again, pulling a severe face. "Yes. You might get lucky but in general… I always steer clear of the docking bay at this time of day."

"_Mon Dieu_… thank you for telling me."

A grateful smile flitted across his features, and he turned away to get dressed. Dorian waited in the bathroom, pretending his grooming ritual was longer than it was, while the other rummaged around in the adjacent room.

"I will be away on a mission for the next few months," Blond said. "I think we will pass through here again before we report back."

Dorian breathed a contained sigh and went to lean against the doorway. The man was nearly dressed now, uniform fully buttoned up, the single badge of an ensign shimmering on his collar. He was sitting on the edge of the bed, for the room had no other seat, and fastened his shoes.

"I can't know where I will be around that time," Dorian explained, "My work takes me all over the sector."

"Of course…" The man got up and pulled on the edge of his jacket to straighten it out. "I had a great evening. I… do you want to exchange —"

"Listen." He took a step towards him and placed his hands on his shoulders. "Last night was… wonderful." The man, really more of a boy when he looked at him up close, smiled happily. Dorian resisted the urge to slap him. "Much as I might want to see where this may lead, you are an _explorer_. I would not want to tether you when life takes you to the stars and beyond. Nor do I think you would want me to… do you?"

The Blond frowned and looked away, then nodded reluctantly.

"Good," Dorian said, lightly squeezing his shoulders. "Then let us leave it at this — a night to remember."

"Perhaps… Yes. Perhaps you are right," the young man conceded. "Thank you."

"You are very welcome. Now, you should get going."

"Yes. Yes, of course."

He collected his bag and slung it over his shoulder, then leaned in for a kiss before Dorian could stop it. He barely managed to pull his face into a smile when the ensign headed out the door and gave a wistful wave before he closed it behind him.

Explorer… Dorian huffed through his nose. Chantry cow, ready to be milked until there was nothing left, would be more accurate. In a couple of months, if the boy returned at all, he'd have long lost the shine that made him beautiful for the moment. He wasn't going to find much chaos on his way. The station was too well-organised for that. Instead, he would be able to report to his superior bright and early.

He looked around the cold, little room. It provided accommodation for military personnel on leave and little else, but it didn't need to be vacated for a while. He contemplated sleeping a bit longer but thought the better of it. With some luck, he could earn enough today to get a better place himself tonight.

New Minrathous was wide awake as he left the lodgings behind and made his way to the central stairwell. The station's core was cylindrical, with dome-shaped floors extending around it, giving it the outside appearance of a multi-layered mushroom. Throngs of people were bustling on the double helix staircase that lined the wall, making their way to the various levels above and below him. Contrary to Dorian's expectations, the hall was surprisingly full this morning. He paused when his path was blocked several times in a row and searched for the cause.

An array of displays was mounted upon the elevator shaft running through the middle of the hall. On a regular day, they showed newscasts from around the sector, departure and arrival schedules, and information on the various businesses and government agencies that were scattered across the station. They received barely more than a glimpse from passersby then — only tourists gave themselves away by staring up at them with lost expressions on their faces. Now, groups stood huddled along the bannisters, gaping at the screens as if they'd never seen such technology.

The displays all showed the same picture, though it was unclear for a moment what it was supposed to be. The word LIVE flashed in the corner, but the feed itself was dark. It showed nothing of interest, except for several hunks of metal that appeared to drift aimlessly through space. It wasn't until the newscast looped back to footage from half an hour earlier that the situation became clear.

Each of the colonies housed their own academy — stations in their orbit, nicknamed Circles for their ring-shaped design. Catalysts were housed there from the moment they were discovered, and the local population wishing to join the fleet went there for training. Ferelden's had now appeared on the screens. Nothing seemed out of the ordinary until a vessel approached at high speed and crashed into the revolving outer ring. The following flash briefly blew out the screens to a pure white, then died down quickly. Most of the fragments had been propelled from view, leaving nothing but the pieces of wreckage in the star-speckled void.

The speakers embedded in the walls let out a high-pitched beep before they came on and routed the sound from the broadcast through the station.

"Much is still unknown about the attack, but we are slowly learning the extent of the damage," the news anchor informed them. "Parts of the Circle had been vacated due to Wintersend festivities on the surface. However, the crew complement still ranged in the dozens. Enforcers are currently at the scene to recover anyone left at the site. Wardens have also been deployed to monitor disturbances in the Veil caused by the explosion."

The picture switched back to the live view, which had zoomed in on the action. Ships were shown navigating towards the station's core, the only part that had remained mostly intact. Sparks flew off shattered control panels and lyrium leaked from the broken conduits, forming thick bubbles that wobbled in the vacuum. Several lifeless figures, clearly caught by surprise and unequipped for surviving out in the open, drifted around in eternal stillness.

"The identity of the perpetrator remains unknown, but they are presumed to have died in the attack. The only statement the Chantry has offered is that they are believed to be a former Catalyst of the Circle. Recently, they had been a member of the Apostates."

Dorian clicked his tongue dismissively and continued his ascent, dodging the groups of shocked people who continued to watch. He'd seen enough. The news cycle would do its thing, speculating and stirring up fear, and then everyone would move on. Perhaps the Chantry would increase security measures for a while, ones that would primarily disadvantage compliant Catalysts like the man he'd shared a room with the night before. He doubted the Apostates, whoever they were, would be the ones to feel the effects.

He entered the highest floor and walked along a hallway with tall windows. A row of people sat behind the glass, lined up along a control panel that took up the entire back wall. Their fingers raced to manipulate the assortment of screens, buttons, knobs and switches in their efforts to manage the Chantry's transmission network. Undoubtedly it was even busier than usual after the attack. Dorian passed them by, rounded a corner, and ascended the final set of steps.

The station's core ended in an observation deck with a round, transparent ceiling. While it was never busy, today it was practically empty. Some workers coming off their night shifts, a couple of tourists checking out the view. The first sun took up a large portion of the vista, its surface churning bright red and orange, while the second hovered behind it. Tevinter lay somewhere between them, its red surface and turquoise seas faintly visible beyond a layer of white cotton clouds. Dorian looked up at the human homeworld, fighting a twinge of homesickness, then turned his back on it. He found himself a seat, sitting down where he could keep an eye on the entrances to the room and opened up his beat-up computer.

He hummed to himself as he entered a string of commands. A long list of entries began to scroll across the screen. Date, time, sender, receiver, a summary of the content — log entries from the messages being processed in the room below him. He moved it to the side and opened a second interface beside it. Another list appeared on the black background, green text flashing whenever a new entry appeared in the top and pushed the rest down.

Dorian leaned back, observing the two lists. One was a window into communication across the sector as it was taking place. The other granted access to the seedy underbelly of the solar system the Chantry was loathed to acknowledge. For someone like him, it was an easy way to make money on a good day, a dangerous pastime on a bad one. It was commonly known the underground network was monitored by Enforcers. He'd heard of people being caught after accidentally taking on jobs the Chantry had created to lure and capture Apostates. It made him careful who he engaged with. No matter how badly he wanted to replenish his wallet, he had no intention of being arrested today.

He monitored the communication stream for several hours, opening up requests and closing them again. Some seemed too good to be true, which generally meant they were. Others he simply refused to participate in, for they were connected to criminal organisations he did not wish to empower further. It was a slow day, perhaps due to the attack. He kept an eye on the official communications channel throughout, observing the desperate pleas for information from those who knew someone in Ferelden's Circle. Sadly, very few replies came back to ease their minds.

One message caught his attention. Government employees had to use encrypted channels for their official communication, which were much harder to get into. This seemed to be a private message sent between colleagues using their personal communication devices. It mentioned the identity of that morning's attacker, information that was undoubtedly classified at present. Though the name was meaningless to him, the comment that followed struck a chord… _Guess the apple doesn't fall far from the tree._ He pondered the statement, wondering what it meant until his attention was drawn to a new request popping up in the corner of the screen.

It didn't show up on the main thread but was directed to him personally. He smiled when he saw the alias — 'V'. Though he had no idea who they were, their jobs were generally clean, and they paid quickly. He opened it and read the contents.

"Again?" he murmured.

The job wasn't anything big, but the pay was decent, especially when done quickly. Dorian shrugged to himself, stretched out his fingers and got to work.

The Chantry servers were hardly state of the art and fairly easily broken into. It took all of a few minutes to crack the various security layers, track down the right files and adjust the requested entry. He marked the job as completed and spent the next few minutes refreshing his account. The payment showed up soon after, bringing his balance back into the green.

He sighed, letting his head hang back over the rest of the chair. It wasn't enough for a decent place to sleep, but at least he could get a couple of drinks. He'd be relying on the impressionable officers again this evening. Even if the mornings were awkward, it was still preferable over spending the night alone in a corner somewhere. Perhaps he should find some actual friends whose place he could crash at instead. He snorted at the thought, packed up his things, and went to find a bar.

New Minrathous had a small recreational district, hosting a couple of clubs and places to eat. His favourite place was open, as usual. The neon sign above the door depicted a broken bell. It flickered on and off, giving the illusion it was swinging back and forth. An uptempo beat was audible before Dorian even stepped through the door and filled out with the sound of electronic piano and trumpets once he entered.

Inside was a single, circular room. It held a stage in the middle upon which dancers entertained at all hours, with a spacious dance floor around it. The mood oscillated between dark blue, indigo and hot pink, with bright white accents to illuminate the entrance and the bar. The glass top counter extended along a quarter of the wall, shimmering in the coloured lights. Small booths took up the remainder of the edge, useful for anyone looking for privacy.

Dorian wasn't, at least not yet. He sat down at the bar, ordered some food and chugged his first drink, then observed the room over a second. The dance floor was full of men of various ages who had shed their uniform jackets or unbuttoned them in acts of careful rebellion. He didn't recognise any particular faces, which was good. Several potential candidates ended up on his short-list — even if he hadn't had the most successful day, at least he'd be able to have some fun tonight.

He crossed eyes with someone across the room. His white hair shone brightly, especially in contrast to his darker skin. Dorian's attention was drawn to the lines that ran down from the man's chin, across his neck, and down his exposed arms. They shimmered in the dark… make-up, perhaps, some new fashion trend. The shape of his ears and his lanky build gave him away as one of the First People. Though it was unusual to see one in here, it wasn't of particular interest to him tonight.

Dorian looked away, then looked back. The man continued to stare at him with a brooding look. While it might have beckoned him over in another situation, now he grew a little uncomfortable at such unwarranted attention. Instead, he focused on the bar and pretended not to notice the intense gaze still probing him, hoping the man would get the message.

One of the officers was sitting by himself, elbows on the bar and a beer in hand. He vacantly stared into it with his head low and shoulders slightly hunched. Beyond his bad posture, however, he was rather fetching. Blond — his type — and well-built, even among soldiers. He was also alone, which made him easier to approach than groups dancing where the music was loudest.

Dorian picked up his drink and ambled over, dragging his hand along the bar. He tossed his bag onto the seat next to the lone stranger and sat down on the one beside it.

"Another of these," he told the barkeep, indicating his drink, "and another for him."

The man looked up only when the beverage was placed in front of him. He frowned at the bartender, who pointed to Dorian in response. He looked over. Dorian raised his glass, to a much surprising reaction.

He shot up in his seat, cheeks turning mauve under the purple light. Dorian looked on in amusement as the man rubbed his neck, eyes darting away and back in extreme discomfort. Goodness… he'd barely even begun. This could either be extremely entertaining or highly annoying.

"I am going to go out on a limb here and guess you've never had someone buy you a drink before," he joked.

He cleared his throat. "You… would be correct."

"And how is that possible?" Dorian inquired. "Handsome fellow like yourself? I know from experience you military men are not opposed to a little courtship."

He stared at him with a furrowed brow. Dorian could see the gears turning in his mind, slowly at first, then speeding up. He realised his own mistake sooner than the officer seemed to understand what was going on, but he got there eventually.

"I… I'm sorry," he stammered, "I am not… I mean, I don't like —"

"That's quite alright."

"I'm so sorry —"

"No apology necessary," Dorian chuckled, "A simple misunderstanding."

The stranger relaxed a little and ventured a careful smile. It was a pleasant smile, he noticed, one that was mirrored in his amber eyes… Such a shame.

"You do realise the type of club you walked into, right?" Dorian asked.

The answer emerged on his face as he looked around him, taking in the scantily clad performers, the men dancing on the floor, and the general decor. He swallowed and began to turn red again. "I… hadn't noticed. I don't go out much. I just followed some people in. I… needed a drink."

"Must have been quite an urgent need."

"Yeah." He turned back to the bar. "… Yeah."

Dorian was about to move on and picked up his glass, but paused before he got up. What had seemed like mere tiredness from a distance appeared far more severe up close. A shadow crept into the soldier's eyes, chasing away the shine that had briefly surfaced there before. He sank lower again, back rounded as if the weight of the worlds had been deposited upon him, and his fingers tightly gripped his glass.

He looked around at the various other options he'd considered. He'd probably find someone to spend the night with, with all the usual consequences. Staying where he was likely wouldn't get him a place to sleep, but he wouldn't be alone either. He cast another glance at the world-weary stranger and put down his drink again.

"So… what happened?" Dorian moved his bag and took the seat next to him. "Must have been something serious to make you oblivious to a bunch of men dancing a pole."

He hesitated and briefly looked away as if he was still unsure whether there wasn't someone else Dorian meant to be talking to. "You don't have to —"

"I want to," he shrugged, "Help me keep up the pretence I wasn't just horribly rejected, won't you?"

"I'm sorry —"

"Joking," he said lightly, "Go on… what happened?"

"Right…" He scratched the back of his head. "I… received some bad news."

His voice was warm, with a pleasant accent that he didn't hear often. Dorian racked his brain, trying to place it until the pieces clicked together with a bitter snap.

"You're Fereldan," he sighed.

He nodded.

"My apologies. I should have realised sooner."

"That's alright."

"I suppose you trained at the Circle?"

He nodded again, jaw clenching.

"Did you know anyone stationed there?"

"Quite a few," he mumbled. "I… was supposed to have been there too. My previous transport never showed. If I hadn't been delayed, I…"

His voice trailed off. A muscle tensed in his cheek and he lifted his drink. He downed the rest of it in one long take, then grabbed the other and took several big gulps more. He slammed it back down on the bar, grimacing as the alcohol hit him. His eyes were watery when he opened them again, shimmering with barely contained emotion.

"Sounds like you got lucky."

"Lucky?" He stared at him. "I might've been able to do something. Help someone. If I —"

"If you had been there, you'd be as dead as your friends now."

"… The Chantry says it was a Catalyst who trained there. Perhaps I knew the one who did it. If I had realised sooner —"

"You have some clairvoyant insight into the inner workings of every cadet, do you? One that no one else in that Circle had?"

The man glared at him, but his anger didn't last long. Instead, he took another long sip from his drink. "We're far too lenient with them."

Dorian focused on the assortment of glasses and bottles behind the bar, wondering how honest he wanted to be tonight. What did he care if this man, whom he was unlikely to ever encounter again, went on to blame Catalysts for every bad thing for the rest of his life? Dorian had long stopped giving a damn… or so he told himself. He pursed his lips and took a sip from his cocktail. His new companion was observing him now, perhaps questioning the prolonged silence, until a sudden realisation seemed to dawn upon him.

"Are you…" His gaze darted to Dorian's neck. "You don't have…"

"Fortunately for me, Tevinter still retains some independence," Dorian replied airily. "You'll find extremists and maniacs on both sides of that argument, friend. I suggest you don't become one of them."

"I…" He swallowed visibly. "Sorry."

"So many apologies in one evening… What's your name, Ferelden?"

"… Cullen. Rutherford."

Dorian straightened himself up a little. "Dorian Pavus."

"Pavus?" Cullen repeated, eyes widening.

"Indeed."

"From —"

"The very one."

"Your father was the one…?"

"Yep."

"I see…" Cullen looked him over, then held out his hand. He shook it. "I imagine you know your share of regrets."

"Plenty... some of them even my own doing! I'd say I am rather an expert on the subject. Wallowing in survivor's guilt?" He shook a lecturing finger. "Not beneficial to anyone, I can tell you that. Same for making grand generalisations based on the actions of a few."

Cullen rubbed the back of his neck. "Fair enough."

"How long are you still stuck here for, Cullen?"

"I've been called back to headquarters," he sighed, "There's a transport in the early morning."

"Well, only one thing to do then." Dorian signalled the barkeep. "Another drink? Can't have you sitting alone here with men like myself on the prowl, and I am nothing if not a good distraction."

The corner of Cullen's mouth pulled into a half-smirk. "Sure… let me get this one."

They sat together for the remainder of the night, drinking and chatting in a way he rarely did with his conquests. They didn't discuss anything of consequence, yet it was pleasant and comfortable. He asked Cullen about his home and his training and shared bits he missed about Tevinter or his work before he'd left. Though he'd have a hard time repeating any particulars of the conversation, a part of him knew it would be a night to remember far more than his previous one had been.

Once it was time for Cullen to leave, he walked him to the docking bay. Vessels came and went at all hours in the shadowy hall, lights blinking on their bows to signal their movements. They walked the dock, their path illuminated only in places where the overhead spotlights shone. The transport vessel taking him to his next destination was already preparing for takeoff. Cullen hoisted his pack higher up his shoulder and halted in front of the gangway.

"Thanks…" He prodded at the floor with his foot. "For keeping me company."

"My pleasure." To his surprise, he meant it. "Take care. Don't be too hard on yourself."

"More expert advice?"

"Indeed! Free of charge, only for you."

Cullen laughed. It wasn't a carefree sound, but less strained than it had been earlier in the night. Dorian smiled to himself. This was far preferable to managing someone's disappointment in the morning.

The transport ship sounded its horn, signalling its imminent departure. Cullen glanced at it, then looked back. "Are you staying here for long?"

"For a while still," he shrugged, "Not much place else to be."

He frowned. "You will take care of yourself too… right? If you ever need something —"

"Your superiors would be happy to jam an implant in my neck," Dorian chuckled. "One way to solve life's problems, I'm sure. Don't worry about me. It was nice meeting you, Cullen."

"… Yeah. You too."

Dorian froze in place as Cullen stepped forward. He couldn't remember the last time he'd been hugged by someone, simply hugged, without the promise or pressure of anything else. Dorian relaxed slowly, holding on to Cullen's jacket until the ship raised its second alarm. They stepped back simultaneously and, for a rare, unsettling moment, he found himself at a loss for words.

Cullen boarded the ship. He looked back before the hatch closed behind him and raised his hand in parting. The next moment the door closed with a hiss and the vessel released itself from the dock, drifting away towards the exit.

Dorian turned around and began the walk back, contemplating the rest of his evening. He'd have to find a place to crash for a few hours. Perhaps the observation deck, which was likely empty at the moment. It wouldn't do to raise the attention of the Enforcers and have them start asking questions, but it would only be for a little while.

A figure appeared before him, blocking his path. Dorian squinted against the spotlight shining in his eyes and tried to identify the shadowy form. Tall and slim, faint lines that shone like the moon on a cloudless night… Dorian straightened himself up, his hand protectively closing over his bag.

"Strange pickup tactic," he quipped, urging the quiver from his voice, "Silently cornering someone when they're alone."

The man didn't answer. He took one step forward, entering into the light. His white hair was nearly glowing under the glare, his gaze no less intense than it had been in the club. What had been mildly tantalising before now made the hair in his neck stand on end. This wasn't someone with a simple, carnal desire… this was a wolf, targeting a prey.

Dorian took a step back, which the man followed with another. The dock ended in nothingness behind him, a long fall down to the hull. The way forward was cut off. He could try to go through, but he'd never liked using his ability, nor had he practised it in a long time. He slowly edged backwards with the man following, his breath rising in his chest with every step.

"I've had a rather long day," he attempted, "We can have a drink tomorrow, you know? Start this over with a clean slate."

The wolf hunched low, his lean shoulders tensing, preparing to pounce. The markings on his skin lit up, pulsing with the beat of his heart. He leapt… and vanished.

The last thing Dorian saw was his ghostly imprint lingering in the air. Something hard struck the back of his head. He fell, bag sliding off his shoulder, and all went dark around him.


	3. Cullen - I

On clear nights, one could look up at the sky and see the shimmering lights of the Circle among the stars. Cullen could still remember standing at the lake near his house as a child and feel them shining down upon him. One day, he would go there. Ever since he'd first seen the Seekers on TV, he had known it was his destiny.

The Enforcers had come to collect a girl one day. How jealous he had been. She was already there, while he had to wait until he was old enough to take the entrance exam. He'd counted the days until he could finally earn his place and would be free to explore the vast expanse stretching out over his head.

Now, sitting in the darkened briefing room, he looked at that same sky being shown on the projection screen. The lights of the Circle were as bright as ever, instilling the same sense of wonder they had when he was eight years old. Or they would, if not for what he knew came next.

Another light appeared beside the station, glinting in the dark. The trail it left was blue, consistent with lyrium venting to reduce heat in an overcharged engine. Cullen averted his eyes, unwilling to see the event again. It had been all over the news, on a loop from different angles, on his journey over here. A bright flash cut through his closed lids and all went dark.

When he looked back up, the picture seemed strangely empty. No matter how many times he'd seen it over the past days, he still couldn't believe the reason was that the Circle had truly gone.

The fluorescent lights came back on with a hum. Rows of officers around him blinked against the harsh glare, shifted in their plastic seats, and cleared their throats. It wouldn't have been the first time they saw the footage either, but seeing it again didn't make it any easier.

A row of admirals sat in the front, lined up behind a dais, and faced the crowd. One of them, a blond woman with a stern-looking face, had opened the meeting before showing the video. She retook the dais and brought a presentation up on the screen. It opened with the Chantry logo, a bright sunburst on a black background, with its slogan underneath. The woman assessed the room through sharp blue eyes. The badge with her name — M. Stannard — flickered on her chest. She cleared her throat and proceeded to the next slide.

"Six-hundred-and-seventy-three." She paused, assessing the room with a sweeping gaze. "Six-hundred-seventy-three died in the attack on Ferelden's Circle, either directly or from areas where debris struck the surface." She spoke clearly and precisely, with a harshness to her consonants. "Many more wounded are reported as well — in the hundreds and counting."

She paused and let the numbers feed the anger sprouting in the room. Cullen's hands gripped his uniform when the next slide showed footage from the ground. The familiar-looking streets, with their multi-story buildings and pavement of grey concrete, had been decorated for Wintersend. White flags fluttered in the wind to welcome springtime and bid goodbye to the long winter. Stalls with food were set up along the sidewalks, and a bandstand was erected in a square. Everything signalled what should be a lively scene, except no people were celebrating.

The stalls stood empty and abandoned. The band had left their instruments behind. Several of the buildings had been decimated by blackened hunks of metal, deformed from burning through the atmosphere. Their remains crumbled within clouds of dust. The sky looked dark, though the time code showed it was midday. The white flags were stained red.

Cullen swallowed against the constriction in his throat, fighting back the bile rising to the surface. He didn't know these particular streets, but the building style and festival scene were far too familiar. Not to mention it was far too soon to the last one, which had been even closer to home.

"This was an act of terrorism," Stannard continued in an icy voice, "Plain and simple. You might see our political leaders discuss this in more flowery language, but that is not our purpose. Our purpose, as Enforcers, is justice. To seek out those who would destroy us and our way of life, and ensure that they will not endanger anyone else ever again. Do not let anyone tell you that this attacker did us kindness in targeting the station when most of the crew had gone. Any life lost to this sort of treason is one too many."

She looked down at her laptop, breathed, and gave a small shake of her head. The slideshow clicked to the next image. The picture of a man came into view. He had brown eyes, blond hair that was tied back, and a several-day stubble. Though his look only barely met with Chantry regulations, the picture was one taken for the official registry. There was something dangerous about the way he looked in the camera. It was challenging, almost as if daring the photographer to capture his likeness before he might vanish — something he'd likely been capable of. Cullen stared at the man staring back at them, his jaw hardening.

"We believe this to be the person piloting the stolen shuttle used in the attack." The admiral looked at the screen behind her. "Found at an early age on Anderfel and raised in the Circle. Came to be known as Anders by his peers, given name never recorded. Made several attempts to leave, but was retrieved each time. Until the last."

She turned her back on the man's picture and refocused on the crowd. "Some apples are rotten from the start, no matter how much you might care for them. This is not a simple case of a Catalyst succumbing to the madness they are all susceptible to. This is a man bent on betraying his friends and colleagues, and all of humanity."

The slides advanced with a _click_ to show his academic record. The text was still at first, then began to scroll upwards. It went on for a while and didn't stop. Infraction after infraction was listed, from minor violations of army protocol to incidents involving violence. There were large gaps in the dates, likely of periods in which he'd been disciplined, then it continued. The record ended over two years ago, where the man had apparently finally succeeded in leaving.

The arrogant fool.

"His biosignature was traced to the site of the attack. Residue consistent with his pattern was also discovered on the wreckage. His body, however, was not recovered. While it was possibly vaporised in the explosion, we do not rule out the possibility at present that he used his skills to evade its effects."

_Click._ Several pictures popped up on the screen, showing men and women in their early to mid-twenties. "These people are known to have spent time with Anders during his training. They are being brought in for questioning. You will be assigned to crews tasked with hunting down the Apostates he joined since turning his back on the Chantry. Attacks like these are not planned in a vacuum. He may be out there planning the next, or otherwise, his cohorts will be."

Assenting murmurs rose from the crowd and heads began to nod. Cullen took a deep breath to loosen the knot in his chest. He was relieved this wasn't turning into an all-out attack on Catalysts. Though he had been tempted to such generalising claims, that man he'd met in New Minrathous was right. Though unregulated Catalysts made him nervous, at least Tevinter knew its place since the rebellion. His new acquaintance was right that not all Catalysts were the problem — it was these kinds of maniacs and those who helped them. Cullen had no qualms about hunting down the Apostates as his next mission. Anything to help, to set right this wrong, to do _something_. Certainly even Dorian would support any effort in making cases like Anders' less likely to occur.

"You are the beacon in the void," Stannard finished, "The burden we bear is heavy, but we are all that stands between the people of Thedas and a hostile galaxy. We will stand united against those who reject the light and insist on staying in the dark."

The applause reverberated against the clean, white walls. The admiral advanced to the final slide, where the bright sunburst of the Chantry glowed brightly against the dark backdrop once more. Lists of names were on there as well, sorted underneath those of the admirals who had been in front. Everyone was ordered to report to their respective commanders, who would soon give them their next assignments. Cullen found his name somewhere down the rightmost list of recruits assigned to Stannard herself and made his way towards her. The admiral finished her headcount soon after and led them out a side door.

They followed her through a brightly lit corridor, passing white walls and nameless steel doors on either side. Stannard walked quickly, her polished boots leading the shuffle with sharp taps. Cullen wasn't sure if it was the nondescript decor or the length of the hall, but something seemed to make it stretch on forever. He wasn't getting tired — training prepared them for worse than a long walk— but it did give him time alone with his mind he was eager to avoid. He'd had far too much of that already ever since he'd first heard the news. The images from the surface now repeatedly played behind his eyes, digging themselves deeper into his conscience. He tried to block them out, focusing on anything else in the sterile environment to occupy himself with but found that the rhythm of the admiral's boots and the buzz of the lights proved woefully inadequate for the task.

They went up some stairs, and eventually into another corridor. To Cullen's relief, in here, small porthole windows gave glimpses of the fleet positioned outside. He latched onto them for every brief second that he could, hungry for a visual distraction. The Enforcer vessels all shared the same armoured, angular design, with variations depending on the ship's purpose. Cruisers were lean, shaped like the head of a spear, and built for velocity. Titans, on the other hand, were heavy giants, armed with cannons and used for assault and defence. Gliding between them were small ships — Shadows — with hulls that shimmered in the dark, meant to stay cloaked and slip between unnoticed. Cullen wondered whether his next posting would take him to any of those. He hoped so. The worst thing right now would be to assume regular guard duty and be stationary somewhere.

Stannard finally halted at one of the nameless steel doors, and they filed into a white, windowless room. It held a reception desk, though no one was attending it, and several benches lined up along the wall. A large screen was mounted on one of the walls, showing the official Chantry news channel. Beside it, a door led to what he assumed was an office.

"Take a seat," she ordered, "and wait until you are called. Avery, come with me."

A woman who Cullen recognised from his training startled mildly, then followed the admiral into the other room. The rest of them sat down on the hard seats, unsure whether it was alright for them to speak and why they'd been brought here. Avery reemerged ten minutes later and left without looking at any of them. The next person was called in and the process repeated. Some were out in a few minutes; others remained as long as Avery or even longer. A digital clock ticked away in the corner of the television, while the news continued to stream live updates from the attack.

They were called in alphabetically, with Cullen's surname leaving him in the latter half of the list. He observed the others waiting with him to pass the time. There were fifty or so of them, and he realised it wasn't just the first woman that he recognised. The Circle was a massive place that made it impossible to know everyone personally, but he was certain he'd seen many, if not all the faces around him before. It hadn't been the case in the briefing room, where the crowd had seemed made up of strangers. All people here were Fereldan originally, which he doubted was a coincidence.

After hours that felt like days, his name was finally called. He got up, discretely stretching his back against the ache that had settled in, and stepped into the room. It was an office space, as he'd anticipated, with a desk on the far end that faced the door. A panoramic window stretched along the length of one wall, providing another welcome view outside. Underneath it was a curved sofa that followed the shape of the station's hull, with a low coffee table in front of it. It all looked positively plush in comparison to where he'd been waiting.

"Have a seat."

The admiral was sitting behind the desk. She gestured to the chair in front of it when he entered, never looking up from the tablet in her hand. Cullen straightened himself up and walked the length of the office, then sat down.

"Rutherford, Cullen… Recruited from Redcliffe, section L56. Secured yourself a scholarship at age eleven. Top of your class in most subjects, save for a slight aversion to interstellar politics." She clicked her tongue. "Shows a certain type of intelligence in its own right, I'd argue."

Cullen swallowed. Her stern expression and business-like tone made it hard to know whether she was joking or paying him a compliment. To prevent himself from putting his foot in his mouth, he decided to remain silent.

"Your placement commanders have been positive about your performance as well. Diligent, observant, loyal." She pursed her lips as she scrolled through his record. "You were placed as a guard so far… You were supposed to return to the Circle for Catalyst control, correct?"

"Yes, ma'am. My transport didn't show, or… or I would have been at the Circle."

"Yes, we've looked into that," she murmured, still looking at his digital footprint rather than the person before her. "Pirates. Another type of vermin we will need to deal with, but I suppose for you it was a stroke of luck."

"It… doesn't necessarily feel that way, ma'am. Except that now I hope to help set things right."

She looked up. Her icy eyes locked straight onto his and narrowed slightly. "Indeed. Tell me, why do you think you've been brought here?"

He frowned. "Only people who trained at Ferelden's Circle were assigned to this group, ma'am. I assume you have reason to believe our background meaningful in getting to the root of this matter."

A thin smile formed around her lips. "Indeed. Tell me… what are your views on Catalysts, Cullen?"

Cullen pushed his shoulders back and took a deep breath to collect his thoughts. "The Veil can play tricks on anyone," he stated, "but when a Catalyst falls to its effects, the results are far more disastrous. It is in everyone's benefit to train and guide them, so that they may best contribute to society."

"And those who reject that guidance?"

"They… need to be set right, ma'am," he replied, a little reluctantly.

Stannard looked him over, then returned her attention to the tablet in her hand. "You originally applied to the Seekers, did you not?"

"… I did, ma'am. It was what I wanted to be when I was younger."

"You changed it after the death of your parents."

Cullen swallowed. He didn't like to talk of it, nor had he expected he would need to now. Guilt curled in his gut like a snake. He hadn't seen much of them in the years before it happened, not since he'd been gone for training. The thought of them stirred up feelings he'd much rather keep dormant.

Stannard had asked the question without any emotion, in the way that she expected an officer to reply. Now she was leaning back in her chair, observing his response. She was in her mid-thirties, perhaps early forties — young for someone of her rank, regardless. Though her sharp features and slight frown made her appear no less stern, her expression was friendlier than it had been up until now.

"I did," Cullen sighed, "After what happened… it seemed becoming an Enforcer was the more worthwhile cause. To protect the innocent. I… wanted to do my part."

"Very admirable," she stated, "and a wise choice. The Seekers seem glamorous to the young. But while they continue to push the boundaries, they neglect the fact that we can barely safeguard them as they are. Of course, we will need to work with them on this investigation, as we do with the Wardens, but Enforcers must stay involved in every step of the process."

Stannard got up from her seat and went to stand by the window. Cullen stayed where he was, relieved the focus was no longer on him. He glanced at her from the corner of his eye. She stood with a straight spine, hands clasped behind her back, and didn't speak for some time. A Titan came drifting by the station and temporarily blocked the view with its welded hull. The Chantry sun was printed on the bow, its wear and tear only adding to its character.

"I lost my family to a Catalyst who thought she could do better than the Chantry's guidance." She turned around. "My sister."

Cullen stared at her. As little as he had expected her to bring up his situation, a high-ranking officer like herself sharing this with him — a stranger, a nobody — was utterly unprecedented. Genuine emotion was in her face now, something that he'd only caught a glimpse of when she gave the presentation before. It was unsettling.

"She didn't want to leave home," she continued wistfully, "My parents were easily persuaded. They tried to keep her unregistered — this was before the Trace was developed — but she couldn't handle herself. It killed them, as well as many others."

"I… I am so sorry."

She gave a faint shake of her head. "What's done is done. All I can do is make sure such mistakes do not repeat themselves." She came towards him, punctuating her words with slow, deliberate steps. "We work alongside them, watch over them, befriend them even… but there is a reason we need to keep Catalysts on a leash." She halted in front of him and fixed him with those icy eyes. His breath hitched as he looked into them. If anyone understood guilt, it was this woman. She had seen what he had seen, if not worse… and her mission was to never have anyone else share that burden. "You understand," she said quietly, "do you not, Cullen?"

"Yes, ma'am," he replied quietly, "I understand."

The admiral nodded approvingly. "Very well." She walked around the desk, sat back down, and tapped something on her tablet. Then she turned it around and placed it on the table in front of him. It displayed the pictures of Anders' friends that had been on screen before. "Do you recognise anyone?"

He looked at them again. While some of their faces had been vaguely familiar, he couldn't recall ever interacting with them. He told Stannard this, then asked, "Are they all Catalysts?"

"They are, which explains why you might not have seen them much. Some graduated before Anders left, others after. They've all been given assignments since they did and have not caused significant trouble, though we are of course investigating them." She swiped the screen, and another picture came into view. "What about her?"

Cullen leaned forward slightly to assess the woman in the portrait. Sharp blue eyes lay within a porcelain face, looking at him defiantly from under a messy fringe of black hair. She was undoubtedly attractive, though she'd probably look more inviting if she wasn't staring daggers at the camera. He swallowed. Unlike the others, this was not the type of face one could easily forget.

"Marian Hawke," Stannard reminded him, "Age, twenty-three. Academic record show she's talented, good sense of control. Minor infractions… disobedience, disorderly conduct, that sort of thing. It got worse as she got older. Originally recruited from Redcliffe… section L57."

Cullen looked up from the picture when she didn't continue. Instead, she was looking at him, waiting with her brow raised. "It… is close to where I grew up, ma'am," he said hesitantly, "but I don't recall her. I did partake in a few training simulations with her, but we didn't speak beyond that."

Stannard considered him a bit longer, then nodded. "Very well."

"Is she connected to Anders?"

"He was her senior. Reportedly they were in a relationship, though she remained in the Circle when he left. Several months ago, however, she requested permission to attend her mother's funeral on the surface. She never returned."

"Didn't return?"

Stannard nodded. "Disappeared without a trace. Though that would be enough of a violation in its own right, fast forward a few months and her lover is implicated in this horrific act. That hardly seems like a coincidence, wouldn't you agree?"

He frowned at the photo of the girl defiantly looking up at him from the table. "I would."

"Good. Now, I am promoting you to rank of Lieutenant Commander."

Cullen's eyes grew wide. He only had a few years of duty under his belt, barely any real experience in the field. He'd still been several steps away from that rank, had done nothing to earn the jump. "Ma'am, I… do not wish to be ungrateful, but —"

"I can tell the ones who will end up being good, loyal officers, Cullen," Stannard said matter-of-factly. "It is difficult enough to do our jobs with the Catalyst activists spreading hysteria. This incident will help show the people why we are needed and why we need men like you… as long as we handle it properly." She smiled briefly. "Congratulations. I know you won't disappoint me."

"I… thank you, ma'am."

"You'll be serving directly under me. Our goal is to find this woman." She rapped the screen with her knuckle. "There is a reason she was not shown in the official presentation. Her identity is being kept classified, while those of the others are not."

"Perhaps it is because she left?" Cullen suggested, "It could reflect poorly on the Chantry."

Stannard shook her head. "It is more than that, but whatever the reason, that is not our main concern. We are to ensure she is found. If there is even a chance another attack is in the planning, we need to do everything we can to prevent it. Is that clear… Commander?"

Cullen took a short breath and nodded. "Yes, ma'am. I won't let you down."


	4. Hawke - I

She wasn't sure what to expect when she first entered The Caravan. After she'd gotten away from her escort, hiding out in the seedier parts of society had been her best bet at not being found. It was there, in the slums and outposts that were not worthwhile for the Chantry to maintain, that tales of the wandering trading post did the rounds, each one more fantastical than the next.

Some spoke of a black market where slaves were traded as freely as liquor and guns. Others of the gambling games, in which pirates squandered their bounty and the night ended with blood more often than not. The description Hawke had found most entertaining was that of a drifting whorehouse that put even those of Orlais to shame, where one could meet aliens from all over the galaxy who could satisfy their sordid desires.

As it turned out, it was all of those things, as well as none of them.

There was a market that, although overwhelming to the senses, was hardly a treacherous free-for-all. Slave trade, like anywhere in the sector, was not permitted. While that did not abolish the practice everywhere else, The Caravan's captain made sure such practices did not occur on his vessel. In fact, any traders wishing to do business on board were screened more thoroughly than they would be on many planets or Chantry stations.

Similarly, the bar was more of a cocktail lounge than a gambling hole. It wasn't anything fancy, but surprisingly stylish without pretension. It did host games of chance at any given hour in which not everyone managed to cope with their losses well. Bull and his crew, however, kept a close watch on the goings-on. Weapons were not permitted, which prevented any altercation from getting out of hand too quickly, and troublemakers were swiftly escorted back to their ships. Though Hawke deemed it more than possible that others could circumvent security like she had, people generally didn't seem inclined to do so. This was a safe space for those who didn't have one under Chantry rule, and they mostly seemed happy to keep it that way.

Finally, there was the brothel in the lower decks. It was run by Leliana, the red-haired singer who performed in the bar. Although she managed a diverse team, there were no particularly exotic species among her ranks. Like in most other places, a couple of First made up the majority, while the rest were humans of various flavours. Like Bull and V himself, Leliana ran a tight ship and seemed to care a great deal for her girls' well-being.

Overall, the ship and its crew were alright and hardly the degenerates they were made out to be. V called himself a businessman and, for all intents and purposes, he appeared to be one more so than a crook. A scheming one, to be sure, ever looking for a bargain and not opposed to dealing with obscure characters to get what he wanted, herself included. On the other hand, he did appear to uphold some kind of moral code she couldn't object to. A little disappointing after all the stories, to be sure, but undoubtedly better for her own longevity.

He introduced her to his crew after they'd made their deal and he set her up with a room. Afterwards, she decided to make herself useful while he procured the vessel needed for the job in the Belt. She assumed The Caravan, with its considerable size, was bound to have a backlog of tasks that needed to get done. It didn't take long for her to be proven right.

Although V expressed great fondness for what he'd built, he was more concerned with happenings on the ship than the mundane task of maintaining the thing itself. A few trips to the lesser-visited areas quickly showed that this disinterest had not gone unexploited by whoever he'd contracted to manage the ship's upkeep. Pipes were leaking, paint was peeling, and seams were coming undone. Though the vessel didn't need to perform like a Chantry Cruiser, it would still be troublesome if the hull came apart over the next few years.

Hawke started the following days by crawling down a maintenance tube to explore behind the scenes. Sometimes she went to investigate complaints from the crew, other times a noise or something else that had caught her attention. Clogged up filters, burnt out relays, frayed wiring… any job was welcome. Unlike V, she preferred the more straightforward company of machinery over that of people for the moment. More importantly, she was eager to keep herself busy.

She'd hopped ships, drifting from place to place to get as far away from home — or what was left of it — as she possibly could. There had been little to keep her mind occupied, save for worries about what might be chasing after her. Yet even before that, she couldn't recall getting the kind of satisfaction from her work that fixing up The Caravan gave her now. She'd worked similar jobs the Circle, yet the difference between making her own decisions, rather than Enforcers giving orders, was night and day. Moreover, it was remarkably better without every aspect of her work being inspected once she'd finished.

About two weeks after her meeting with V, she lay on her back in a ventilation shaft, eyeing a particularly nasty blockage after having spent a day cleaning the system. What the black gunk was, she couldn't tell. It was fuzzy to the touch and almost completely covered the vent providing fresh air to one of the lower deck rooms. She'd cleaned it off where she could, but the layer was so thick here that she no longer had the patience for it. Instead, she twisted around in the narrow space and felt around for her tools. She hacked away at the goo once she found the right one, revealing the screws, and removed the entire grate. There were several vendors on the market selling spare parts — it shouldn't be too hard for V to find a replacement.

She crawled backwards on her elbows the way she came until she reached her point of entry. Leliana's office was one of the larger rooms on board, though still only half the size of V's. She'd decorated it tastefully, with plush chairs, warm lights, and drapery to hide the welded seams, wires and pipes running along the steel walls. Leliana looked up from her desk when Hawke dropped down from the ceiling and held the contaminated vent up to the light.

"Was that the problem?"

"Couple of clogged ones, this one the worst," Hawke murmured, assessing the substance. "I'll get a new one. Oxygen flow should already be better now that it's out."

"_Merci_," Leliana sighed, "My girls have been complaining about headaches for weeks now."

"No one did anything about it? This shit has been building up for months, if not longer."

"Alas," the redhead lamented, "Varric has been rather preoccupied lately."

"He doesn't need to crawl in there himself, just get someone to do it for him."

Leliana looked away. "There used to be an engineer, but I hear she left a couple of years ago to get married. There hasn't been anyone permanent since, just on and off. People down on their luck and in need of money. They are… not as good."

"No shit," Hawke scoffed, "If he's been paying them, they've been ripping him off."

"Feel free to tell him that," Leliana smiled slyly, "He can't resist adopting every stray he comes across, but learning that he's bleeding money might make a difference."

Hawke huffed a laugh. She stuck the tainted vent in her bag and wiped her hands on her trousers. "Are you saying that's what I am? His latest stray?"

She laughed. It was a bright sound, as pleasant as her singing voice. "You are, indeed. Just like I was before you." Unlike others from her planet, Leliana's accent didn't make her sound haughty. Hawke found it strangely and surprisingly appealing. Based on what she'd overheard of the madame coaching her staff, she was reasonably sure it was by design.

Hawke leaned against the wall and crossed her arms. "You were? Where did you come from?"

"Is it a mystery, _ma cherie_?" Leliana teased.

"Surely there are a few steps between being on Orlais and ending up here."

"There are many steps between any situation and ending up here," she said wisely, "but you are not sharing yours yet either, are you?"

Leliana and V seemed to share a similar lust for personal information, either out of morbid curiosity or because it was of some other value to them. Though she'd been without company for a considerable time, Hawke declined the services of the brothel when they were offered. Dropping one's trousers seemed like an excellent first step in giving up such intelligence, which she was eager to keep to herself.

"My sequence of events make me a fugitive," she countered. "Knowing as little as possible is in everyone's best interest."

"What makes you think that is not true for me as well?"

Though her smile remained pleasing, something in the girl's eyes told her she wasn't merely coy. Hawke supposed it was naive to expect she was unique in how she had found her way here. The Caravan and V operated purely on reputation, one that no one in their respectable, assigned Chantry jobs ever got to hear about. A few things must have gone awry in one's life to settle on a course here, that much was clear.

"Fair enough," Hawke conceded, "I will go tell V he needs to get himself an engineer or prepare to have his ship fall apart around him."

"Good luck with that. Wash up before dinner, please."

Hawke gave a casual salute in acknowledgement and left Leliana's office. The stairs at the end of the hall led straight up to the bar. On her way she passed by some of the crew, who greeted or stopped her to exchange pleasantries. One of Leliana's people thanked her again for fixing the lights in her room, another asked her to check her heating. Hawke promised she'd drop by later in the evening and fix it first thing come morning.

Holding on to a steady day schedule was the only way to keep a level head out here. Like a winter with long nights and short days taken to the extreme, the eternal darkness outside the small windows made anyone lose their sense of time and direction soon enough. Most ships in the sector, even pirate ones, had their internal clocks set to the official Chantry time. The length of a day was still based on Tevinter's rotational speed, that of a year on its orbit around the sun. A regular schedule had been a luxury she couldn't afford on her way here. While it was something so mundane — and, in the Circle, suffocating at times — she hadn't considered she might miss it the way she had.

All hours had blended together as she scouted out her next ride, lay in wait to board unseen, or hid in dark cargo holds. While it was something she could resist relatively well, unlike some of her colleagues, months of it had been taxing, even for her. She'd also had to use her skills to remain undiscovered, further straining her body and mind. The best thing about The Caravan was to be amongst a natural ebb and flow of people again. Right now, she could trust the bar to be relatively empty before the evening rush. Soon after, it would fill up for dinner and Leliana's performance. It would remain full for most of the night, empty out for a few hours come early morning. Then, as night shifts ended and day shifts began, fresh faces would sit down for breakfast, tired ones for a last drink before finding their beds. During the day, people would come and go until it would all start up again for the evening. She enjoyed the rhythm of this ship, how it gave her something to ground herself to while still allowing the freedom to fill her own time. It was a new experience… and a good one.

She raised a hand to Bull in passing. Doubling as bouncer and bartender on any given night, he was carrying in supplies from the backroom to refill the bar's stock. By lack of a free hand, he hollered a jovial greeting to her instead. She laughed to herself as she climbed the stairs to V's office. What limited experience she had with his species — the largely hostile, primary inhabitants of a neighbouring system — he seemed to defy most of what she'd learned about them. Another example of Chantry doctrine, perhaps… the same that would have her believe she'd disintegrate if she was ever alone for an extended time.

V's office was quiet when she entered, save for the low sound of the TV mounted on the wall. While that was usually the case, it was the first time that she found it empty as well. Hawke stood still, wondering if she should leave, then walked further in. She placed the dirty vent on his desk and glanced at its contents. Lists of numbers and names, printouts of communication logs and other messages… V seemed to be one of those people who still preferred paper over digital displays, further evidenced by his extensive book collection. The information scattered across the tabletop meant little to her, save for an update on her new ship. Evidently, the supplier would arrive within a couple of days. She wondered where this character had found them a Shadow, though she doubted a straight answer would be forthcoming if she asked.

A quiet _hiss_ made her look up from the desk, only just in time to see one of the bookcases begin to move. It popped out of line with the others, then rotated away. V stepped out of the hidden passage and turned back towards it. He grabbed one of the books on the shelf, pulled it out, and placed it back. The cupboard silently slid back into place again, then clicked shut.

V's brow rose when he noticed her standing behind his desk. "Snooping, are you?"

She'd been too surprised to step away in time, but he didn't appear upset. In her time on board so far, few things seemed to accomplish that. "That's hardly the most noteworthy aspect of this situation," she argued, "You have a secret passage behind a bookcase? What era are you from?"

"Didn't you know?" he grinned, "I'm a time traveller."

"Of course you are. So, what's behind there?"

"My quarters. What's this?" He nodded to the vent, scratching his exposed chest. Though it was warm enough in his office, that was hardly the case everywhere on the ship. He had to be freezing half the time with his plunging neckline… perhaps his kind had a higher tolerance for low temperatures that she didn't know about.

"What does it look like?" she scoffed, "It's a vent that needs replacing. Your overly engineered bedroom door opens and closes without a sound, while your ship is a rattling rust bucket. You need a mechanic on your crew."

He smirked. "I have one now, don't I?"

Something twinged inside her gut. Despite the temporary nature of their agreement, he loved talking about it as if it was a permanent position. "I won't be around forever, V," she cautioned him, "Based on what's on your desk, I'll be out of here soon."

"You'll come back… and I will remind you again that you can call me 'Varric'," he said smoothly, picking up the vent. "This is gross. Where is it coming from?"

"My guess is some kind of corrosion in the pumps, maybe vermin that got in there from a shipment."

He pulled a face. "Got in there and… what?"

"Educated guess?" she mused, "An illegal transaction of sorts. Vermin slave trade, maybe drugs. Something didn't go according to plan, probably a double-cross or two involved. The victims were never found, but from that point onward, their tortured wails could be heard whistling through the ventilation shafts."

V let out a low chuckle and turned the contaminated part over in his hand. "Sounds exciting."

"The less embellished version is that something is rotting away in your pipes. Must have been a while already. People have been complaining about it, Captain."

He faked a shudder. "I also believe I've told you not to call me that."

"Sorry," she teased. "Habit, you know? The Chantry fleet is a sucker for hierarchy."

"Something tells me you don't actually share that sentiment, Hawke. Thank you for figuring this out, people staying on that deck have mentioned headaches for a while."

"And now you know why."

"Indeed, I do."

"Whoever does your maintenance swindled you hard."

"As you have enjoyed telling me every night since you started. What can I say?" he sighed, throwing up his hands. "Mutual trust backfires sometimes."

"In this case, it costs you money and your crew's well-being."

"Yet both issues appear to be solved as long as you're around, my friend," he said brightly, wiggling his brow.

She rolled her eyes. "Keep deluding yourself if you want. I —"

Her attention was drawn to the television behind him, where the newscast mentioned Ferelden's Circle. Anders' picture had been shared a few days after the event, his death confirmed. She bit the inside of her lip as the latest numbers rolled across the screen, detailing the extended effects of the attack. A sector-wide manhunt had been declared as well, targeting any Apostates who'd been in contact with him. An empty gesture that missed the point entirely, of course, but she supposed the Chantry had to do something to retaliate.

V sat down behind his desk, observing her closely. "You okay?"

"… I'm fine."

She was failing miserably at burying the nasty feeling. It wouldn't convince him, for sure. Her face always gave her away, betraying her inner feelings at times where it would have been far more convenient for them to stay hidden. It had gotten her in trouble more than once. Someone like V was bound to pick up on it and unlikely to let go quickly.

"You knew people there, I imagine? Do you want to talk about it?"

"What's there to talk about?" Plenty, but there was no need for him to know that. "It sucks… I can only consider myself lucky I wasn't there at the time."

"Indeed," he nodded, pressing his fingertips together. "Very lucky."

Something in his tone caught her attention. "Yes… Are you insinuating something?"

"Is there something to insinuate?" he asked innocently, "I assume your decision to 'drop out' was unrelated to this event, wasn't it?"

"It was," she spat, anger flaring, "If I had known about this, I can assure you I would —"

"Then there is nothing to get upset about, is there?" He looked her up and down. "Though I hope someday you'll feel comfortable enough to share the actual reason for your departure."

Hawke relaxed a little. "You're out here for a reason, V, rather than close to everything else," she stated, shaking her head, "Getting involved is not something you want, I assure you. Let's keep this professional, and don't get too used to my being here."

She turned to leave, fighting the knot in her stomach. It would be much easier if they all simply let her be. She was perfectly happy doing her job, even share a drink or a meal with them at night, as long as they minded their own business. Soon, she'd be out of here again — gone, by herself — for at least a month or so. She hoped he'd take the hint, find himself a mechanic, and continue to send her out for the remainder of their agreement. The moment her time was up, she'd be out of their lives again and they out of hers.

"Hawke."

She paused at the door and took a breath. V was leaning back in his chair and smiled faintly when she looked over her shoulder. His gold necklace, nestled above a copious amount of chest hair, flickered in the light of his desk lamp. The overt mobster-like appearance was at odds with the softness of his expression. It had a fatherly quality to it that made him appear older than she guessed he was.

"I won't further pry into your affairs if you don't want me to," he said gently, "and I'll get another engineer eventually. But let me tell you this. You didn't have to start crawling through my pipes while you're waiting for your ship. No one asked you to."

"… I don't like to be idle."

"Perhaps… but I rather think you started doing that because you saw there was a need on this ship. I won't make assumptions as to what happened to make you think you're better off without people, but you clearly care for them. I think you'll find that part of you will win out, in the end."

Hawke lingered on the doorstep, unsure what to respond. Eventually, it was V that looked away first, dismissing her with a knowing nod before he diverted his attention to the papers on his desk. She made to leave again, unable to quench the clenching in her chest.

"By the way…"

She halted one more time and cast her eyes to the ceiling. "What?" she asked, turning around.

"I'll be coming with you to the Belt." He gave a slight shrug with one shoulder. "Just so you know."


	5. Dorian - II

For a long while, there was nothing — only blackness, with no beginning, middle, or end. No feelings to consider, not of himself, nor others. Not the weight of forlorn expectations, age-old disappointment, or hateful arguments that could never be undone. There was just the darkness, including the sweet sense of oblivion that came along with it.

He was nothing, adrift within more of nothing. This sensation could have been frightening, perhaps, but it wasn't. Instead, his mind fermented in it. A single kernel that had no wants or desires, except more of the same sumptuous simplicity. He could stay here forever, it told him. Wouldn't that be nice?

He agreed — it would be.

A single sensation flickered on like a candle, a streak of conscience that drew his attention to somewhere else in the blankness. He frowned. If there was nothing, how was there a 'somewhere else'? For there to be a 'somewhere else', there had to be a 'here' as well. And if there was a 'here', then that had to be where he was. Yet how could he be anywhere, if he was nothing?

Of course, if he was nothing… how did he just frown?

He did not like this line of reasoning. It threatened to take away the blissful peace he'd been submerged in if followed further. He tried to will it away, but the peculiar feeling only intensified. It made his mind very aware of the fact that he was, indeed, not nothing. Instead, he was a… thing. A cocoon, if you please, constructed of flesh and bone with awkward appendixes and aching muscles. A container for organs and ligaments, blood pumping through veins, and neurons firing signals with increasing speed, informing him that his flesh-cocoon was not in its proper state. He resisted this knowledge for as long as he could until finally, it coalesced into an ungodly headache.

For there to be a headache, he had to have a head as well. No matter how much he enjoyed the idea that he, in fact, might not have one, the rational part of him could no longer deny this unfortunate fact. He had a head that was killing him, a sore back, freezing hands, and stiff legs. The entirety of his assembled being was laying on a rough, metal ground, where it had no business being. He sighed deeply, wondering how he'd managed to end up in such a position, and opened his eyes.

Dorian found himself in a small room. To his relief, the only light — a single, naked bulb dangling on its wire — was dim. With his head still pounding, anything more would undoubtedly only exacerbate his precarious state. He pushed himself up to a sitting position and gingerly touched his hair. A faint lump adorned the back of his head that was painful to the touch. He muttered a curse in his mother-tongue and wrapped his arms around himself.

The way he'd been living, perhaps it had only been a matter of time until he would end up in a state such as this. He hadn't expected it to happen _now_, after a night where he'd been, for all intents and purposes, really rather well behaved. Perhaps cosmic karma worked with a delay. Yet, if this was some kind of retribution for past transgressions, he really would appreciate knowing what his punishment was supposed to be, exactly. For now, all he knew was that he'd been knocked out and taken to an unfamiliar location. His bag was missing, which was problematic in its own right. Overall, he supposed the situation could be worse — he wasn't dead, at least — but some specifics would be welcome indeed.

"Hello?" he called out, "Anyone there?"

His voice echoed hollowly in the small chamber. He took in his surroundings, blinking in the half-light to focus on its shadowy shapes. There was a bucket next to him and some cleaning supplies in the corner. He stared at them, then slowly took in the rest. Brooms, mops, boxes with spare parts — filters, bolts, screws, wiring — and other assorted materials stacked onto shelves that reached to the ceiling. He hadn't exactly been living in the lap of luxury lately, but a supply closet… really?

Was he on a ship? There was an audible rumble in the background. The hum of an engine perhaps, or just a ventilation system. A shiver pulled through his spine, and he hugged himself tighter. Now that his mind had awoken again, the image of his assailant was sharp in his memory. He didn't know what someone like that wanted with him. Money, probably — that'd be a sad disappointment once he learned his actual situation. Part of him felt a spiteful joy at the thought of the ruffian figuring that out. On the other hand, once he did realise he wasn't of actual value to him… what would he do then?

Though Dorian didn't consider himself a coward, brute strength was hardly where he excelled. He'd learned to use a gun, like most, as well as the skills his unique physiology provided him with, but he didn't particularly enjoy either. His lab was his home — before having to leave it — with its books, equipment, and microbial cultures. He also enjoyed the better things in life — a good book and a glass of wine, a warm bath, a well-prepared meal. He took little joy in violence or 'roughing it' like he had. If it came to an altercation with the stranger, he didn't delude himself to think he had much of a chance of winning. Even if he did, how many more of them were out there?

The door opened, letting in a stream of light. Dorian squinted against it and cursed again. The stab between his eyes flared, then began to fade. He forced his eyes open to focus on the silhouette that had appeared in the doorway, looming tall before him, until it slowly came into view.

Dark skin, white hair, pointed ears. The man leaned against the door frame, arms crossed before him. The tattoos were still there, shimmering faintly. He wore no uniform that Dorian recognised, just a nondescript tunic and a pair of dark leggings that emphasised his slim build. The only thing that gave off a clear message was the holster around his chest and the gun that was stored in it.

"So, you're awake."

There was little warmth in the man's expression as he looked down upon his catch, his dark brows framing sharp eyes. His voice was low, with a slight rumble in its undertones, almost like a growl. Dorian shifted back slightly, bracing himself against the cold floor.

"Do not worry, Catalyst," the First said with a mocking chuckle, "You are not in danger."

A rather meaningless statement after being hit on the head and abducted, but Dorian decided it was best to let it slide for now. "What do you want?" he asked. "Money?"

"Eventually. For now, we are just going for a ride."

"We're on a ship then?"

"We are."

"Who do you take your orders from? Why did you take me?"

"You ask a lot of questions."

The lines on his skin lit up briefly, then dimmed again. Though he didn't know what it meant, it was threatening enough for Dorian to quiet down. If at all possible, it would be best to stay in this man's good graces. He needed his computer if he was going to contact anyone… he'd figure out who later. Though he didn't know how long he'd been unconscious, New Minrathous was a few weeks away from the nearest planet or station, at least. Figuring out their destination would give him a timeline to work with, a window to come up with a plan. At least, if he wasn't going to be confined to a supply closet for the duration of it.

"Sorry," he tried, "I just… well, this is not a situation one expects to find themselves in."

"From what I've observed, you could have ended up worse," the man asserted, not incorrectly. "Seems to me like we're doing you a favour."

"… What favour would that be?"

He huffed through his nose. "Taking you home, Catalyst — free of charge. Not what I would consider the best thing to do with you, but as I've been instructed… the bills need to be paid around here somehow."

"… _Home_?" Dorian launched himself to his feet and was in front of him within two strides. "Who in the Void do you think you are? Turn this ship around at once!"

His captor blinked at this sudden outburst. His markings activated once more, like a poison frog dissuading a potential predator. "Keep your distance."

Dorian swallowed but didn't back down. Going home was the last thing he wanted and, clearly, these morons had no idea what they'd gotten themselves into. "What do you think you can gain from taking me there? I assure you, no one there is going to pay you for my return."

"Step _back_, Catalyst!"

"Don't call me that! I saw you shift when you attacked me, you are just like —"

A flash cut across the dingy room. The markings glowed brightly, starting from the man's chest and flooding through his skin like a wave crashing upon the shore. His hand phased out of existence, then materialised around Dorian's neck. It pushed him back with force, lifting him off his feet until his back slammed into the supply cupboard. His already injured head struck one of the shelves, sending an electric pain through his scalp. He cried out, then cursed, and stared at his assailant's white-hot eyes, mere inches away from his own.

"We are _nothing_ alike," the First snarled. "Don't even think of finishing that sentence, or I'll rip your heart from your chest."

"Fenris!"

The man glared at him a moment longer, then looked towards the voice that had called him out. The light of his tattoos died down, and his grip lessened until eventually, he let go entirely. Dorian stumbled out of his reach, rubbing his throat. In the door stood a woman with a curvy figure, hugged by a long, black coat. Her neck and ears were adorned with bronze and gold jewellery, constructed from small gears, chains and other machine parts that shimmered in the hallway light. Her look was familiar, but the buzz in his ears made it hard to recall why. She looked him over, then turned towards the other man.

"Did we not agree to keep him alive? There is no bounty for a corpse."

"I was hardly about to kill him," Fenris scoffed. "You'll get your coin."

"It is your coin too, you know."

"There is no bounty on me at all," Dorian coughed. "I don't know who you think you've caught, but no one is looking for me."

"Think again, handsome," the woman purred, "There is quite a nice reward out for you. Not on the official network, but I've always found word of mouth to be so much more reliable."

She managed to give each word a lascivious charge, emphasised by the teasing glint in her kohl-rimmed eyes. Especially the word 'mouth' rolled off her tongue in a practised way, accompanied by a slight tilt from her hip. Dorian huffed a chuckle and shook his head. If that was what she was after, she was in for another disappointment. "And who, exactly, does word of mouth say has put a price on my head?"

She flashed a devilish smirk. "Halward Pavus… sound familiar?"

Dorian stared at her. "My father? Impossible!"

"Apparently not. Now, there is no need for us to be enemies while you're here. We'll simply get you reunited with dear old dad and collect our reward," she said airily. "If you behave, I'll let you out of the closet for some fun."

"I've been out for a while, love — locking me up doesn't change that. You're barking up the wrong tree."

"How unfortunate," she smiled and, turning to Fenris, "I like him. He's got spunk."

Dorian weighed his chances. She seemed to hold some position of power here. Even if it was said in jest, her taking a liking to him could be a potential ticket out of this situation. His chances were undoubtedly better with her than her companion, who merely scowled at her.

"Are you the captain?"

"We maintain a somewhat flatter hierarchy than that," she murmured, "but it is my ship. As long as you're on it…" She cast Fenris a warning glance. "You won't be harmed. I don't run that kind of operation."

The man scoffed, then walked past her. "I'll go check on navigation."

"Thank you, dear," she cooed and, calling after him as he rounded the corner, "Cheer up!"

Dorian brushed down his clothes and ran a finger over his moustache, tweaking it back into a proper curl. The woman observed him with some amusement, eyes sweeping him from head to toe when he refocused on her. "So," he stated, straightening himself up, "you're bounty hunters?"

"When the opportunity presents itself. Mainly, we raid."

"Pirates," Dorian sighed, suddenly remembering where he'd seen her before. "Of course… lovely."

"It is lovely, my dear." She leaned against the wall, crossing her arms. "Nothing but the stars to dictate how we live. Does Tevinter remember what it was like before the Chantry cut off your balls?"

"A dig at my homeworld?" he quipped, "Classy. Let me tell you something about Tevinter, _my dear_. An unauthorised ship — a pirate ship, no less — is not going to cross into its space without its entire arsenal being directed your way. Perhaps my father had enough influence to facilitate such a transfer once, but that has long stopped being the case."

She pursed her dark lips, making the piercing underneath glint in the shade. "Are you telling me we're heading into a trap?"

"I'm telling you that if you want to keep enjoying your freedom, you'd better stay away from anything Tevinter is doing. Someone _might_ be after me, but they're not going to let you leave alive, of that I am certain."

"If not your father, who floated the request?"

"I've made some enemies," Dorian shrugged, "In Tevinter, one can manage that quite simply by being different."

She considered him, eyes narrowing. "Or you just have a family quarrel, and you're trying to keep us from collecting easy pay," she countered. "Thanks for the warning though — I'll be sure to keep an eye out."

Her earrings jingled when she turned around, ready to leave. Dorian's mind sped up, assessing his options. He couldn't share the real reason his father — or anyone — might be looking for him, not with some random pirate crew only looking to turn a profit. Yet if she brought him back now, everything he'd done over the past months would have been for nothing. Not to mention the result… he didn't even want to contemplate it.

"What would V think of you handing me over?" he called after her, desperation creeping into his voice.

She'd been about to close the door, but, to his surprise, halted.

"You know V?"

He straightened his spine, years of instilled authority asserting itself. "Yes. You're Isabela, right? The Chantry renders do a poor job at capturing your likeness, but I recognise you now. I work for V — he asked me to lift the bounty off your own head before your goon assaulted me. I doubt he'd be pleased when you neutralise one of his agents."

"I didn't ask him to do that and, unlike you, I do not work for V. Who he hires is none of my concern."

He had no idea what kind of man V was, except that he had to hold some position of power in her circles. Nor did he know whether the mysterious character gave a damn about whether or not he could still do the odd job for him. It didn't matter, he supposed, as long as he could make her believe that he might.

"Are you sure you want to take that bet?" Dorian pressed her. "He's always got projects in the work that you might mess up. No pirate code, I suppose? Honour among thieves?"

"Tsk," Isabela scoffed, "What romance novels have you been reading?"

Dorian did his best to keep his composure, despite the cold and his aching head and stared straight back at her. For now, the best he could do was buy himself time. Perhaps it was possible to divert their attention away, show them a more profitable path than handing him over. If he could manage that, he just might make it out of this.

Despite her sarcasm, Isabela remained where she was, one hand on the door handle, the other on the gun stuck in her belt. She slowly fingered the trigger of her weapon, then made up her mind.

"I'll contact V, see what he says about you. Who knows, he might just be able to verify the bounty on you and where it came from." Dorian stepped forward to thank her, but she pointed her finger at him. "Don't think you're in the clear. We will see coin for our trouble — if V cares enough to pay up, so be it. Otherwise, you're going to Tevinter."

She turned around and walked off with a swagger. The door remained open, which Dorian took as a sign to follow her. He ran the possibilities through his mind as to who might be after him. It could be his father, though it was doubtful the man was savvy enough to utilise the underground network for it, or that his pride allowed him to. He might've hired someone to do it for him, or perhaps it was another who had figured out what they'd been working on. There was no good option, that much was clear, though it would be a problem for the future.

That savage, Fenris, would probably argue against their contacting V. Plus, he had no idea how his client would react to suddenly being approached. His lies would be exposed rather quickly once the stranger told her he didn't care. Not that it was a complete lie that Tevinter protected its space like a dragon hoarding treasure, but even he doubted that a ship turning over a bounty would be shot on sight. No, he had better hatch another plan while they were waiting to hear from V.

You have gotten yourself into trouble this time, his mind mocked him. Haven't you?

He agreed, he had.


	6. XXX

It couldn't recall a before. All it knew was that, ever since it had existed, it had been listening. Not to its own world, where no sound could be heard, but to the Other Side. Behind the barrier, all manner of voices sang along with a world entirely unlike its own. Some were booming with joy, blinding in their brightness. Others were whispers spoken to the silence, calming with their sweet intentions. Shouts that broke the sighs around them, murmurs that made them whole. At times, it would revel in the symphony of it all. Still, even more often it honed in on an individual instrument, each of them unique, and followed it until it would stop playing.

The more it listened, the more it wanted to be a part of them. While most were vague, unformed, and firmly out of its grasp, some could cross the barrier. It would reach for the shapes, even accompany them for a time. It would get to know their thoughts, their fears, their hopes and most secret desires until eventually, it would be cast back behind the threshold. Sometimes it could find them again, though not all would let it in once more. Other times, they were gone forever.

One day, it found a voice it had not heard before. The tone was quiet within the chatter, yet rang brighter than any it had previously come across. It veered towards it, seeing its vessel among the shapes of so many others. Yet no matter how close it got, no matter how much it tried to reach for the quick form weaving its way through the shifting mass, it couldn't get in. It worked and tried, probing for an opening, following it as it shifted in and out, was lost and found, and eventually, stayed put. Finally, as it gave one last push, stretching its being to merge with the unfamiliar, it slipped through the cracks and saw the Other Side for the first time.

The noise was deafening, much louder than it had ever been. The voices blended together with whirring and banging and clanging and sizzling, and an orchestra of other sounds it had no way of understanding. It shrank back in a reflex, startled when it pushed over an object that went down with a sharp clatter. Next, something struck it and, on instinct, it yelped. It leapt away from the unexpected sensation — an intense, unpleasant feeling near its thoughts — and stumbled further on clumsy legs, tail between its legs.

It shrank back into a patch of space not occupied by anything else and stared at the new surroundings with wide eyes. It didn't understand how it had landed here, in a mass of movement, heavy thumps, light taps, and swift scuffles. It didn't know why it was so different from the last times it had accompanied a voice, where it had caught glimpses of the alien world through their eyes. There had been colours, more colours than in their own world. Now, all was grey. Previous times, it had been carried by the voice and their thoughts. Now, it was alone, low on the ground, with nothing to keep it company. Its new body rumbled, and another disagreeable sensation surfaced in its core.

The voice cut through the clamour like lightning in a storm. The only known thing in this strange new place, it whipped around in the direction it came from. It couldn't see the light anymore, but the sound was the same. It came from a figure, who paced through the crowd with determination, unaware of the being shivering a few feet away.

"I don't care what you say," it said to the other beside it, "_That_ is not a Shadow. What did you do, find a child's drawing and use it as a blueprint, then piece it together from junk you found floating around?"

"I assure you, serah, the functionality is the same," a clouded mutter answered. "The engine was salvaged from a Chantry Shadow, as well as the lyrium interface. You are free to stress-test the hull, see how the system operates with your implant."

"That hull looks like it will fall apart if I so much as breathe in its direction, let alone initialise a shift."

"I'm afraid I'll have to listen to my associate in this case," a third tone rang, twinkling with hidden delight, "but I'm sure we can come to an agreement. Taking into consideration, of course, that we'll need to make some improvements at our own cost."

They halted and continued to speak, after which one of the figures moved away. The clear voice and the twinkle stayed behind, talking in low tones no less pleasant to its ears, which had pointed themselves in their direction.

"You drive a hard bargain, Hawke. I didn't know you had it in you."

"I wasn't trying to," the other said tiredly, "That ship is worse than yours. You expect me to head into the Belt in that?"

"Us. And it wasn't that bad. Driving Chantry fleet has made you a little spoiled, I think."

"Say what you want, at least their ships don't disintegrate upon touch."

"Give it a test-run, see how it holds up. We can make improvements if necessary as long as the basis is sound. Be sure to keep up the sour mood though, even if it's not as bad as it seems. I think we can knock the price down quite a bit more."

"Fine. Don't say I didn't warn you when we end up adrift."

The two resumed their walk, away from where it was sitting. Instinct struck once more. It had to draw attention, let the voice know it had been trying to reach it. It didn't know where it had ended up, but the only thing that made sense was to be close to the voice that had drawn it here in the first place. It filled its chest, letting its new body move on its own, and produced a deep bark that made all heads turn in its direction.

The figure looked as well and came closer. It began to quiver with excitement and pull on the constraint that kept it in place, pushing to meet the shape reaching for it. It was warm and tender, then ruffled its head. Its tail began to wag, and its leg stomped on the ground. Before it had time to consider why it responded in this way, it had flipped upside down and allowed the voice to rub its underside.

"Where did this guy come from?" she asked, addressing something it couldn't see.

"Got a bunch of them from some Chantry shipment," the reply was, "Apparently they use them for science experiments. When they're no longer of use, they 're-integrate' them. People would get too upset if they just killed them off, I guess, though you'd probably be doing them a favour. This one barely moved until now."

"Science experiments?" The voice quieted and looked back. The eyes, though still without colour, shone brightly in this murky world. "How much do you want for him?"

"Hawke… surely you're not thinking of taking him?"

"Excuse me, did you not hear the man? He barely moved until now, and look at him! He's adorable!"

"We're about to leave!"

"You can give up your seat. I told you I'm fine."

"That is not happening."

"Then I suppose you'll just have to share it."

She pulled out some flat, shiny objects and handed them over. A moment later, it was following her through the crowd, sticking as close to her as it could.

"I can't believe you did that," the twinkle sighed, eyeing it sideways. "Don't leave the beast unattended in my club. Can't have him slobbering over my patrons."

"You wanted me to make more friends. I figured you'd be pleased."

"I meant people… what are you going to call it anyway?"

She thought a moment. "Dog."

_"Dog?"_

"Life is complicated enough," she shrugged and, turning to the trotting creature by her side, "Wouldn't you say, Dog?"

It allowed its body to make a sound again — a short, happy bark that it was quickly getting used to. It never made sounds before. It never walked on legs. It had never had a name that it could recall. It wasn't sure where it was, or _what_ it was now, but it knew some things.

It was going to stay with her, and it was called Dog.


	7. Cullen - II

Cullen walked the gangway unto his newly assigned vessel, staring in awe at the place that would be home for the next few months. The CSS Justice… cruiser-type vessel of a new design, perfectly balancing speed and offensive capabilities. Crew complement of sixty-three, capacity for up to thirty passengers, two shuttles and two griffon-class fighters on board. Equipped with thirty torpedoes, type V warheads and high-concentrate lyrium lasers. Lyrium-circuitry throughout the entire vessel, as well as a seventh tier shift-engine, capable of traversing cultivated space in a matter of —

"Name?"

He halted and blinked at the ensign standing before him. She had a tablet in hand and waited for him to answer. When he did not do so immediately, she let out a contained sigh through her nose.

"Ah," he stammered, "Excuse me. Rutherford."

She nearly dropped the tablet. "Y-yes, Commander!" she said hastily, her eyes flitting to the floor. "My apologies, sir, I did not recognise you immediately. You're… I mean, please forgive the oversight." She tapped something on her tablet and stepped out of his way. "Your quarters are on deck four, sir. The captain has requested that you report to the bridge once you've deposited your belongings. I can show you where."

"That's alright," Cullen said uncertainly, wondering what he might've done for her to turn as red as she had. His own face had been close to flushing when she'd caught him off guard, as it was prone to do, but her discomfort made his pale in comparison. "Don't you need to check the rest of the crew as they board?"

"But…" She looked behind her as if the ship itself was going to give her new orders. "If you're late on the bridge then…" Her voice trailed off as she contemplated what to do. Apparently, she sincerely doubted his ability to find his way without her help.

"I won't be," he assured her. Her tension was palpable, and he was eager to move on. Maker knew he was nervous enough about this new posting without it. "Stay at your post, Ensign. There are signs, I assume?"

"You… can check the panels along the wall, sir," she explained, motioning to one beside her. "They'll tell you where you are and how to go."

"Then all will be fine. As you were."

He quickly passed her and squeezed into an elevator just as it was about to go up. It shot away from the lowest floor without a sound, its motion utterly imperceptible to the people standing within it. The only thing to signal that they were moving was the bright number above the door that changed with every landing.

They reached deck four a short time later. Cullen breathed a quiet sigh, his thoughts quickly leaving the nervous ensign behind. The floor that housed his quarters was one of several for crew and potential passengers. The elevator opened up to a wide hallway with clean, steel walls and a grey carpet floor. He'd familiarised himself with the design of the ship the moment he'd received his assignment. Most levels were built this way — a circular hall that eventually led back to the same elevators with rooms on either side of it. Now that he was standing inside of one, he could also see the dark displays spread intermittently along the wall. He walked over to the one right across from the elevator. It didn't have apparent controls that he could see, so he pressed a tentative finger on it instead.

"Lieutenant Commander Rutherford," a gentle voice spoke up. Cullen retracted his hand in a reflex, but it continued unabated. "Welcome aboard. My name is COLE." The display lit up, showing a circle with a large dot inside of it. It was white in the centre with a blue ring around it. Even without any other features to define it, it read to him as an eye… one that was looking straight at him. Beside it appeared the letters spelling its name and underneath, in a smaller font, 'Centrally Operating Lyrium Entity'. "I want to help. What can I do for you today?"

The eye didn't move as Cullen stared at it. "Eh… hello?"

The pupil narrowed to a horizontal slit, as if its lid had closed a little, then opened back up. "Hello. What can I do for you today?"

"Ah… sorry. What — I mean, who are you?"

The eye flicked up and back. "The question of 'what' is the more accurate one, Commander. I am COLE. I am powered by the lyrium circuitry and can assist with ship functionality. I can also monitor Catalysts more efficiently for their safety and that of the crew."

"I see."

"How may I help you today?"

"Right," Cullen said with a small shake of his head, "I'm looking for my quarters."

"Of course. Your quarters are —" The name vanished, and the display showed a blueprint of the current floor instead. "Here." The map indicated his current position with a bright arrow. It drew a dotted line through the corridor towards his destination. Supposedly, his cabin was not far from the elevator and situated on the outer ring. He sighed in relief.

"Can I help you further, Commander?"

"No… Thank you, Cole."

The eye blinked. "You are welcome. Good day."

The display went dark. Cullen contemplated the interaction a moment longer. He had not experienced technology like this on stations or the surface. Although AI's existed, most interfaces were text-based. Voice recognition was still quite problematic, and dynamic responses were limited. Perhaps it was the addition of the eye that made this one seem more… alive than other ones he'd interacted with, but he doubted that was all there was to it. It made sense, of course, that advances such as these would be for military use first, especially Catalyst control. It really was quite amazing.

Wondering what other surprises this ship might hold, he walked the corridor and found his chambers. It wasn't particularly spacious, but it had a decently sized bed and a sitting area. Off to the side was a small, private bathroom, which was a definite improvement over the communal facilities he'd been used to. Most welcome, however, were the windows along the outer hull, currently providing him with a view of the station he'd just left behind. Eager as he'd been for this new posting, he'd been concerned his quarters might be on the inner ring. Even though they likely had a display to simulate the outside, it didn't quite compare to an actual view. Although there wouldn't be much to see most of the time, knowing space was out there made all the difference in not feeling confined.

He dropped his bag on the bed and found the pins Stannard gave him at the end of their meeting. He fastened them to his collar and observed the result in the mirror. It had been a single, steel pin before and one half-moon. Now he had another full one, all three neatly aligned in a row. He still couldn't believe his luck he'd gotten them as quickly as he had. Though it didn't quite feel like he'd earned them, it made him all the more determined to make sure he'd live up to them now.

The bridge was located two decks below, in the centre of the ship. The door slid open without a sound. Cullen blinked against the brightness of the fluorescent lights against the white interior. The floor was tiered with symmetrical steps leading down on either side. Consoles were set up on each level, manned by one or two crew members. On the highest level, overlooking everything else, stood two broad command chairs. Everything faced a massive view-screen covering the opposite wall.

"Commander on the bridge!"

One of the ensigns had stopped what he was doing for a moment and stood at stiff attention. The others quickly followed suit, clasping their hands behind their back and staring straight ahead of them. Stannard was sitting in one of the command chairs, checking something on the information panel beside it. Unlike the rest, she didn't look up at his entrance, nor when the ensign spoke up.

"Back to work," she said coolly, "We're on a schedule."

The crew returned to their duties with most only casting a brief glance in his direction. A woman with sleek, dark hair shot him a brief smile before directing her attention back to the console. Except for her, the only other person who took note of him longer was a large man with oddly blue eyes, who sized him up with a stern expression. He had two pins on his collar — a senior lieutenant. Cullen raised himself up, ignoring the man's probing gaze for the moment, and went to meet Stannard instead.

"Captain," he greeted her, "Reporting for duty."

"Glad to see you're on time," she replied, still not looking up. Her display showed a mission brief, featuring the photo of the woman she'd shown him during their meeting. "We'll be departing within half an hour. The journey should be fairly straightforward, so it will be a good time for you to familiarise yourself with the ship."

"I have studied her design, Captain," he assured her. "Undoubtedly, there is more to be learned from personal experience, but I am familiar with the basics."

She looked up briefly. "Good. I suggest you schedule meetings with the heads of department as soon as we are on our way. For now, I would like you to coordinate our departure from the engine room."

"Coordinate, ma'am?"

"It's a routine procedure. We will make a jump for Ferelden as soon as we clear the dock — her trail runs cold as we speak." She rapped a knuckle against the display, knocking the woman in the picture on the forehead. "You've reported in, haven't you?"

"… I have."

"You are qualified?"

"I am."

A mildly amused smile played in the corner of her mouth. "Then get to it, Commander."

He resisted the urge to swallow. "Of course, Captain."

She dismissed him with a nod. He boarded the elevator once more, descending further to the lower decks. Cole provided him with directions on his way, and a short corridor led him to a door labelled 'Engineering'. It parted like the one to the bridge had done, but opened up to a very different scene.

Where the bridge had been airy and sleek, the engine room felt dark and crowded. Nearly every inch of the walls was covered in displays, showing all manner of charts, tables, diagrams, signals, and graphs. Cross-sections of the ship were visible on more than one screen as well, each emphasising different aspects of its systems. Cole's eye blinked at him from several locations and flitted around to follow the activity in the room. Ensigns and lieutenants were pacing up and down between consoles, entering information and monitoring readouts. A percussion of _beeps_ and _pings_ signalled Justice's response, punctuating the rumble from the charging engine.

"Can I help you?"

A man with red hair and a neatly trimmed beard walked up to him, holding a tablet. Cullen extended his hand in greeting, which the other shook after a moment's hesitation. "Cullen Rutherford," Cullen introduced himself, "First Officer. Are you supervising the launch?"

The man's eyes flitted to Cullen's insignia. "Yes, sir," he nodded, "Name's Thrask. Pardon me, I didn't expect the new First Officer to be someone so young."

At least he was upfront about it. One-and-a-half pins shone on Thrask's collar — a junior lieutenant, same as Cullen's previous rank. However, he appeared to be several years older. His comment wasn't wholly surprising — he'd expected people to question his experience. Thrask was unlikely to be the last.

"I have supervised security teams in various Chantry stations so far," Cullen stated, "but I'll admit there is plenty for me to learn. I hope I can rely on your expertise."

"You can indeed, Commander," Thrask replied, "I've been aboard Justice for six years myself, two as her Chief Engineer. I'll gladly familiarise you with her quirks."

"Chief Engineer?" His eyes were drawn back to the pins on the man's collar.

"That is my title, sir, even if the Chantry may not grant me the accompanying rank," Thrask shrugged. "The truth remains that I know this engine better than anyone on board, save for the Catalysts themselves."

Cullen looked him over, unsure what to make of his situation. Yet, a rapid sequence of signals drew his attention before he could consider it further. Cole blinked on the flashing display, then vanished, making way for a notice that everyone had boarded and they were to prepare for take-off.

"Thank you, Thrask. For now, we are to depart from this dock without issues and initialise a shift towards Ferelden. I will coordinate from here."

"Very well, sir. We are almost ready. I suggest you take the central console over there."

He indicated behind him, to the middle of the room. Besides the many displays, the only thing illuminating the chamber was a tall cylinder — the ship's core and its primary source of power. It was filled with a blue liquid that glowed brightly in the darkened room and swirled within its confines. The engine room stretched the height of two floors, with the lyrium-core reaching all the way to the ceiling. It towered over the crowd milling around it, like a sacred monument watching over them. A multitude of tubes ran from the top towards the ceiling. There, they disappeared behind the bulkheads, to connect with every other part of the ship.

A set of eight alcoves surrounded the core at its base, facing towards the room. Each nook contained a leather chair, including a small display connected to the armrest, as well as a built-in interface module to connect the occupant to the system. The spaces were filling up quickly, with each Catalyst on duty taking their respective positions.

Cullen took his place behind the supervision console and watched a young woman sit down in the alcove across from him. The automatic restraints snapped around her ankles and wrists the moment she took her seat and the implant in her neck connected to the backrest with a deep _hiss_.

"Are you alright, Grace?" Thrask asked her, monitoring their condition from another console.

Cullen navigated the interface on his own display and brought up their vital signs. All heart rates stable, biochemical values within normal ranges. With a couple more taps, he brought up the ship's navigational data beside it, which would help him give orders to the helm. He analysed their current position. It was crowded about the station, with many other vessels positioned around or commencing journeys of their own. They'd need to get enough distance, line up at the right angle, then initiate. A precision job, to be sure, but a routine one, as the captain had said. He rested both hands on the console for a moment and drew a discreet breath.

"All good, Chief," the Catalyst before him said to Thrask. "All systems go."

"Be ready to initialise on the Commander's order," he instructed her, glancing over to Cullen. "Standing by. Whenever you're ready, sir."

Cullen checked the last system logs, confirming that all hatches were closed and the crew accounted for. "Alright." He focused on the information before him. Hours upon hours of simulations and studying had prepared him for this. While some likened flying a spacecraft closer to an art form than a science, there was no denying the purely mathematical foundation for it. He took solace in this knowledge and let the theory flood his memory and direct his decisions. With another long breath, he pushed down his nerves and laid in a course.

"Disconnect docking gear. Sending heading to the helm."

A reply came instantly, with the pilot confirming his command from the bridge. A surge ran through the lyrium core, and a display on his far-right gave a satisfying _beep_ in acknowledgement. "Docking gear retracted, sir."

"Engage the side thrusters."

The schematic of the ship began to drift, gently easing away from the station. With a few commands, the map zoomed out to a more comprehensive view, showing the path to open space through the many vessels navigating around them.

"Adjusting heading, increasing velocity."

The pilot followed his orders, and they began to turn, gliding towards their intended location. A flashing light indicated another craft closing in on them from the side, slightly faster than it should.

"Another vessel approaching, sir."

"Adjust pitch angle, negative five degrees. Reducing velocity to three meters per second."

"… Approaching target location," an ensign informed him, confirming what was on his own displays. "Projecting alignment in fifty-three seconds."

They passed the other ship without incident, but the minor aberration caught his attention. Cullen reran his calculations, unearthing the issue with a quick projection. He smiled to himself and made some final adjustments.

"Adjusting angle," he stated, forwarding the directions once again to the bridge. "Point-six degrees."

"But… alignment is correct," Thrask said carefully.

Cullen shook his head and pointed at the numbers. "You have a minor drift in the port thrusters. It'll need to be fixed as soon as possible. For now, we need to compensate."

Thrask walked over to him and stared at the panel with wide eyes. Cullen stepped aside to let him see. The man rapidly assessed the numbers and the projected path he'd laid out, then turned to him with flushed cheeks. "You… are correct, sir. I apologise for the error. Should we postpone the jump?"

"No, we can do it. We just need to be vigilant. Can the Catalysts compensate?"

Thrask looked over to Grace, who nodded. "Yes, sir."

"Very well. Standby to initiate the shift."

A hush fell over the room. Everyone's eyes were on the monitors, carefully observing the state of the ship and the people connected to the drive. No matter how many times they'd done it before, something like this always required a crew's full attention.

"All stations prepare for the jump. Cut power to the thrusters, all velocities zero. Our inertia should get us to where we want to be."

He wondered if this slight malfunction was the reason Stannard had wanted him down here, as a test. Directing navigation could just as well be done from the bridge, but the intricacies of initiating the lyrium engine were best observed from the scene itself. The sooner he was familiar with its functionality and the team, the better. They seemed to understand hierarchy well enough at least, but their attention to detail could clearly use work.

The ship slowly cleared the crowded station and lined itself up at the right angle. Once they initiated the shift, there was little they could do to change its direction. A quick ripple passed through the lyrium core in anticipation of his command. In the half-dark, it pulsed lightly, syncing up with the heartbeats flickering across his screen.

"Initiate shift."

The core surged with a clap of deafening thunder, its contents swirling in a torrent of energy. Grace sat up with a jolt as the power rushed through her implant and into her bloodstream. Her eyes, grey in colour before, lit up and her veins glowed brightly under her skin. Her pupils faded rapidly and soon disappeared altogether until all that was left was a blue sheen within shining white.

"Catalysts engaged," Thrask confirmed, his brow furrowed.

Cullen nodded at the readings. Their heart rates had quickened, and biochemical levels approached thresholds, but all stayed well within acceptable parameters. "Take it away."

The numbers on his screen jumped to impossibly high values as the rushing of the engine came to a crescendo, drowning out any noise around it. Cullen kept his gaze firmly on the screen, where the ship was shown to tap into Fade space, bending the laws of physics as it shifted out of ordinary existence. The floor rumbled beneath his feet, shaking the console he braced himself against. Any readouts were meaningless at this point, with their sensors unable to make sense of the space around them, but it didn't matter. His calculations had been correct. In a few seconds —

The turbulence ceased quicker than it had begun. Within a single moment, the light of the core died down, the noise faded, and the alcoves released their inhabitants. The Catalysts slumped forward in their seats, contained by the restraints keeping them from sliding down. The readings on Cullen's display soon returned to normal as well and confirmed their location. Ferelden appeared on his screen, dull and grey within the blackness. Not a welcome sight exactly but, for now, a sign of his first success.

"We've reached Fereldan space, Commander," someone reported, "Minor damage on the outer hull, all systems read normally."

The Catalysts were already coming around, their bindings unsnapping themselves. Thrask walked over to Grace and handed her a bottle of water.

"I'd like to see that drift corrected by the end of the day, Lieutenant," Cullen told the engineer, "As well as a full report on the shift."

He only faintly heard the man's confirmation before the doors slid closed behind him, for his attention was already on the bridge. He'd passed his first test, and he was eager for more.


	8. Varric - II

It was a good purchase.

He was sure of it, no matter how much she tried to make him believe otherwise. Sure, the ship was rough around the edges, but it was functional where it mattered. Of course, he too had expected it to look a little more like what was advertised. Chantry ships were sleek and stylish. Though he wasn't a fan of the look in general, Shadows, in particular, were aerodynamically shaped and comprised of shimmering, dark steel. Though their stealth capabilities made one a sensible choice for their purposes, he didn't doubt Hawke also simply liked the look of them. Her second reason for requesting one, perhaps, had been to see whether he could deliver.

He hadn't _not_ succeeded. It had the essential components of a Shadow. Still, the person putting it together had taken some liberties with the rest of the design. Instead of the angular Chantry look, the shape reminded him of a sea creature — a swordfish, perhaps — with a rounded body, pointed snout, and fins extending from its sides and tail. The hull was pieced together from whatever had been salvageable from other vessels and hastily painted over in a bright red to give the appearance of unity. Despite the deviations from the original, he closed the deal anyway once Hawke successfully tested the engine. He actually rather liked the look of it, plus he managed to snag it for a fraction of the intended price. As an added bonus, his latest crew member's attitude as she criticised the thing continued to amuse him as well.

"Why don't people think more about how they put shit together?" Hawke's voice grumbled from underneath the vessel. She was lying on her back, hidden from sight save for her long legs sticking out in his direction. "Like this!" A set of screws came tinkling towards him. He picked one up and noticed the cross-shaped recess had worn out almost completely. "Shit quality. Busted after using them once. Like you'll never need to take them out for maintenance?" A grease-covered hand popped into view. "Screws," she ordered, impatiently gesturing for him to pass her new ones.

He'd helped her over the past days with the odd job here and there — replacing plating and wiring, tightening bolts, loading supplies — but there was little he could do while she worked in cramped spaces like this. Still, he felt it necessary to stay with her while she prepared for their trip. So he sat beside her new pet, a drooling hulk of a dog, and responded to her demands when needed.

"Screws," he confirmed, placing them in her outstretched palm.

The box and her hand disappeared in a flash.

"You're welcome," he said helpfully.

"… Thanks."

"How much longer, do you think?"

The only answer he got was a series of _clunks_ and rattling noises, followed by a long string of curse words.

"A while, I guess."

She slid out from underneath and looked up at him. Her skin was stained with dirty smudges, making her eyes stand out even more than they usually would. Especially now, with her dark brow forming a sharp line and her annoyance on full display, they were quite captivating. He smiled at her. It had been a while since he was so fascinated by someone. It made him feel younger, and just the right amount of foolish.

"Do you think it a good idea, asking me questions when I have my head stuck in an engine?" she sniped. "Does that seem like the time for making conversation?"

"You should know at this point that I find any time a good time for making conversation."

She sighed but didn't continue to pick a fight. Instead, she huffed through her nose — something very nearly approaching laughter, Varric thought — and disappeared once more. "Should be soon," she said, her voice sounding metallic as it echoed into the hull. "Are you ready to go?"

"Nearly. I'll take some work with me."

"You realise we'll be off the grid as soon as we leave Chantry space, right?"

"I know," he conceded. It was a problem, but one that he'd just need to deal with. "I'm not taking that kind of work."

"How mysterious." A grating noise of metal scraping over metal made the hair in his neck stand on end. Afterwards, he faintly heard her murmuring, "Righty-tighty, lefty-loosey," to herself as she reattached the plate. She emerged shortly after and sat up, stretching her arms overhead. Dog barked happily at the sight of her. "Are you sure you can leave things behind for so long?" she asked, rubbing the animal behind its ears. "We can manage if you just let me know what we're looking for."

"While I am flattered that you feel my company is easily replaced by that of… this," Varric quipped, gesturing to the silly creature giving him a lopsided grin, "It's not just that I don't want to send you alone."

"Good, because —"

"You are very capable and not scared of what's out there, I get it," he cut her off.

He didn't doubt her, though that didn't make her wish to go alone any less irresponsible. Why she was so eager to keep him at arm's length and prove her independence, he wasn't sure. Years of the Chantry telling her she couldn't manage herself, perhaps, or something else she wasn't sharing. She continued to play her cards close to her chest when it came to anything regarding her past. He entertained the faint hope that might change once they were on their way.

"Be that as it may," he continued, "this is something I want to do myself."

She crossed her legs and pulled them up to her chest. "Is it? You still haven't told me what it is we're doing exactly."

"Dweller artefacts," he shrugged. It wasn't a lie. "You know most of my kind are extremely reclusive, right? Bunch of bureaucrats, mainly, desperately holding on to their power from monopolising the lyrium trade. We've got a couple of them trading here, outcasts like myself. Most never leave, and few foreigners are allowed in their territory. I have it on good authority that asteroid was abandoned, but valuable materials were left behind. Should fetch a high price to the right buyer."

"Didn't know you were strapped for cash."

"It never hurts to have more, especially with all this maintenance I suddenly need to perform on my ship," he grinned. "It's not what I'm most interested in. It is always beneficial to offer something no one else is selling. You can ask whatever you want if you have that."

Hawke watched him through narrow eyes, then got up. "Alright." She wiped her hands on her trousers, which did little to remove the stains. "I think I need two more days, just to make sure everything will hold."

"What do you still want to do?"

"Hmm… small stuff. Another test, ideally," Hawke murmured, pressing a finger to her chin. "We need to be able to make a jump if necessary and hide if we run into patrols."

Varric eyed the brightly-coloured ship. It fit quite easily in the cargo-hold of his vessel, between the stacks of boxes and crates, but it wasn't exactly small or discrete. It was hard to imagine that it could jump from place to place in the blink of an eye or disappear from view altogether.

"How does it work?" he asked her. "What do you do exactly?"

"Huh?" She blinked in surprise. "You don't know?"

"Not the specifics. No Chantry education for me," he shrugged, "You know my ship is not capable of any of that."

"You still have a lyrium engine," Hawke smirked, crossing her arms in front of her chest. "You should know how it functions."

"Ah, but I don't leash any people to mine," he retorted, "Surely, you don't want to hold that against me?"

Hawke huffed through her nose. "I don't," she said softly, looking back at the ship. Her hand absentmindedly patted Dog's head. "This engine works the same as yours," she explained, "Manipulating lyrium to produce energy, powering other systems. The difference is the technology around it, and there's the interface, of course." She tapped the ring embedded in her neck, fully exposed without her jacket. "If I connect with it, it allows me to extend my abilities. Instead of only affecting myself, it affects the space around me as well."

"But… you can always vanish?" Varric asked, sizing her up. With her height and complexion, she stood out in any crowd. It was almost as strange to imagine her disappearing as it was the ship. "Teleport? Is that how you managed to get here?"

"Eyes up here, V." He looked back up from her legs — ridiculously long, they were — and smiled innocently, which earned him another chuckle. "It's not teleportation. It's… well, a shift. There's a reason they call it that. I don't disintegrate and appear somewhere else, I just… briefly enter a different dimension."

"Ah," he nodded, "Of course. As one does."

"Indeed," she laughed, "As one does. Large ships with many Catalysts might give the appearance of teleportation, but that's only because the size of the reaction allows them to move more quickly. We'll be faster than the engine can manage when I do it alone, in a smaller ship, but it doesn't compare. Also, it takes a lot out of the Catalyst, so there's a limit."

"Using it by yourself as well?"

"Less so," she shrugged, "but yeah. Exposes us more to the Fade too, which can be risky. Weird shit in there."

"I see… Well, run whatever tests you think are necessary, and let me know if I can help." He nodded to the ship. "What about the colour?"

She pursed her lips. "I suppose it can stay."

"Really? I mean, I like it! But it's not very stealthy."

"You don't track a spaceship by looking out the window," she chuckled, "If I don't want to be a part of the Chantry, I suppose I might as well drive something that makes that statement."

"It certainly does that," Varric nodded, "It's a good addition to Fleet Rattling Rust Bucket."

"As long as it's here," she smirked. "Want to grab dinner? I'll continue for a bit afterwards."

"Ah… I still need to catch up on some things, so I'll have mine upstairs. I'll walk with you, though."

They went up to the bar, where she disappeared into the kitchen to wash off the grime. She answered Bull's fist-bump on her way, seeming quite more at home than she had a few weeks ago. Varric continued upstairs and nearly bumped into Leliana.

"Is snooping around my office the new favourite pastime?"

"If my intention was to 'snoop', Varric, you would never know it happened," the redhead said slyly, "I was looking for you."

"Oh. Sorry, I was in the hold. Why?"

"I just wanted to go over the week's numbers with you, but we can do it later." Her lips were painted a dark red in anticipation of her performance. They curved into a knowing, slightly mocking smile. "Cargo-hold, _n'est-ce pas_? You have been spending a lot of time there."

"We're leaving soon," he shrugged, "I feel I should help out."

"Is that why?" She walked past him and leaned on the bannister, where she looked out over the scene below. "It has nothing to do with who you'll be leaving with?"

Hawke had reemerged from the kitchen, somewhat cleaner than before, and sat down at the bar where Bull handed her a drink. Though he couldn't hear what they were discussing, she threw her head back, laughing at something the giant said. Bull had easy manners that quickly put anyone at ease — Varric was pleased to see Hawke was no exception.

"What are you implying?" he asked, leaning on the railing beside Leliana. "That my interest in helping a new member of the crew settle in, or prepare for travel, is untoward?"

"I've seen you interested in people, Varric. I've also seen you be more than that." She bent down a little to be at eye-level with him. "You like her."

"Everyone seems to like her, even if she does her best to prevent it."

"True. She's clever, and her heart appears to be in the right place. But I don't see Bull or the boys getting all doe-eyed when they talk to her."

"Oh, keep your observations to yourself."

"You don't deny it then?" Leliana laughed. "I thought you would resist a little, at least."

"You know me better than most people," he sighed, shaking his head, "What's the point? I'll admit I find her… intriguing."

She straightened herself up, smiling victoriously. "Very mature of you. Just be careful out there."

"Give me some credit. I'm not that stupid."

"Not usually… but you do have a thing for people who make themselves unavailable."

He rolled his shoulder. His mechanical arm gave off a soft _whirr_ in response. "All the more reason I'll keep my head on this one. It's hard to forget someone when they're literally a part of you."

"… Her work is," Leliana said quietly, "It's not the same."

"There's not much of a difference with her."

They stood together in silence and watched Bull enter the kitchen as his team joined Hawke at the bar. Varric felt a familiar flicker in his chest when she laughed again, the sound of it reaching across the din. He sighed. What _was_ the point in denying it? It was a small thing, a silly one a that — based on very little, and not something he'd ever act on. He'd prefer to enjoy it while it lasted. It'd be over one way or another soon enough, that much was clear.

"Have you told her?"

"That would be the definition of stupid, wouldn't it?"

"Not that." Leliana was no longer smiling. "I mean that you can't reach him?"

The pleasant feeling plummeted into his stomach like a brick. "…No. I haven't." He scratched the back of his head, making strands of hair fall from the band he used to tie it back. "I'm sure he'll check in soon enough."

"Can you contact someone else?"

"I'd rather not spread the word about her," he sighed, "You never know who's reading along."

"He was pretty reliable so far, wasn't he? If the Enforcers are looking for her —"

"I know, Red. I'm sure —"

"_If_ they are looking for her," she pressed him, "We are all at risk, Varric. She may have evaded them, but they'll find her eventually as long as they can trace her."

"Space is pretty big, you know?" he murmured, "It'll take a while. They're going to be too busy to trace a single Catalyst after that Circle business."

"It is only a matter of time. You know they consult the Wardens if Catalyst matters get out of hand, right?"

"I am aware," he assured her. He placed his hand over hers in what he hoped was a calming gesture. Not that Leliana needed to be coddled. She was tougher than most people, a quality that generally went hidden behind her girlish mannerisms. "I won't let anything endanger you or this crew, alright? And… I don't think she would either. Please, just… monitor communications for me while I'm away, and give the information when he checks in? I won't be able to out there."

She let out a quick puff of air but nodded.

"You'll keep an eye on things, won't you?"

"Of course," she sighed, "You don't need to worry."

"Thank you." He lightly squeezed her fingers before he let go. "I should get back there. Can you tell Bull to send up dinner?"

"I will."

Varric made to leave but turned around when he reached the door. "Oh, I'm sorry, by the way… For not fixing the ventilation sooner. I know you mentioned it before Hawke got in there."

"It's okay, Varric." She smiled wistfully and glanced at the room behind him. "I know you have a lot on your mind."

"Yeah… Still though. I shouldn't let things like that slide."

"Don't beat yourself up. Are you coming to the show?"

He shook his head. "Only got a couple of more days. We'll be listening."

Leliana cast him one more smile before she went downstairs to change. Varric watched her go, wondering how he'd ever run the place without her.

He closed the door to the office once she'd gone and walked over to the bookcase. His finger traced the spines of his collection until it came to rest on a book on Dweller history. He'd only read it once, years ago, and did not consider it of particular importance. From everything he'd heard, it would seem 'his' people were far too concerned with the past. It was a trait he was happy to forsake. Instead, he'd glued the pages together and had the book incorporated into the hidden locking mechanism. At the time, he'd found it rather poetic. The case slid to the side without a sound. Hawke was right that he'd neglected the rest of the ship… fortunately, at least for the next year, she could help out with that.

Varric blinked against the muted light as he stepped through, while the passage closed behind him with a soft _thud_. The next room was smaller than his office, with rounded corners and a low ceiling. It had no windows. Instead, a small sitting area was centred around a display that covered part of the wall, offering the illusion of one. Today, it showed a rolling seascape from atop a white cliff. The sounds of the waves crashing unto the shore temporarily transported him back to the Free Moons. The recording lasted a full day if played in its entirety — synchronised with the ship's clock, it simulated the rhythm of day and night.

A small figure sat in a rocking chair, her unseeing eyes transfixed on the screen. Once, her broad shoulders carried the load of supporting a family in a foreign place, away from everything she knew. Now, they were hunched, barely filling her well-worn cardigan. She'd never been still in her life, not that he could remember. Her rough, calloused hands would always be working whatever job she could find — cleaning fish, carrying cargo, scavenging parts… Whenever she was without one, she'd wring those hands nervously, picking at her skin until it scarred. The only times he remembered her calm was when she'd found herself a bottle. Now, she sat stiller than a statue, not even rocking the chair in the slightest. It was precisely how he'd left her this morning, and how he'd found her when he came by in the afternoon.

"Hey, Ma."

She still didn't look up, not until he picked up the manuscript that lay on a chair beside hers and sat down. She lifted her chin slightly when he did and began to turn in his direction, but her attention was drawn back to the screen before it reached him.

"How are you today?"

She turned her head again, further this time. Her nose was flat and broad, and her eyes drooped down in the corners, like his own. Those features only seemed to become more amplified with age, spurred on by the slackening of her skin. They didn't share the same broad jawline, which he'd gotten from his father's side, but the rest of his face was hers. He was happy for it, even if it was confronting to see his future reflected back at him so brutally.

"Have you seen my sons?" she asked him.

"The handsomest one is right here, Ma," he joked faintly, "It's Varric, remember?"

Her eyes lit up. "Varric! He's a good boy."

"Thanks."

"Where are we?"

"On Kirkwall, Ma… Home."

"No…" She shook her head. "No, no, no… Surface could never be home."

"It's… where we live, Ma. It's okay —"

"No, no, no…" She shook her head again. "When do we go home?"

"What, don't you like it?" he asked, leaning back in his chair. "It's a nice view, isn't it?"

They observed the setting sun as it sank into the sea, painting it a brilliant patchwork of pinks and yellows. His mother's hands moved in her lap… fidgeting. Varric sighed to himself and grabbed the remote from the table.

"You want to go home?"

She nodded slowly, imperceptible almost, but he pressed the button nonetheless. The seascape disappeared, making way for a shimmering rockface. It was dark grey, nearly black, with a blueish sheen. In it, a million tiny flecks sparkled like stars. If he didn't know better, he'd call it beautiful. The hollow chamber was massive, with crisscrossing bridges, connecting dwellings on multiple levels hewn from the stone. It was illuminated by lanterns — no matter the time of day, the lighting never changed.

"There," he said, opening up the manuscript. "Shall we continue?"

He didn't wait for an answer. Instead, he read to his mother, like he did most nights, making annotations along the way. All the while, she did not respond but stared transfixed at the display, her hands laying calmly in her lap.


	9. Hawke - II

The fluorescent bar on the ceiling hummed quietly along to the rumble of the _Caravan_. Hawke looked around, checking that she hadn't left anything behind. She hadn't really bothered to unpack since arriving, so chances weren't big that she would. People barely had possessions in the Circle, and she had left even more behind on Ferelden before her escape. A single messenger bag with some essentials was all that remained. It was already slung over her shoulder, a little fuller than before with some extra clothes from the marketplace. With those packed away, there was nothing left in the stark chamber to suggest she'd ever been there.

After goodbyes — kisses on the cheek, high-fives, a bone-crushing hug from the giant behind the bar — she went down to the cargo bay, Dog happily following on her heels. He stumbled a few times, tripping over his paws like a drunk in heels, but caught himself and looked up at her with sunshine plastered across his silly face. She smiled, an increasingly common occurrence since she got him. Scars ran over his massive frame, and his ears and tail had been clipped. He'd probably been locked up, poked, and prodded since he was a pup. Not allowed to be a dog in the least had resulted in the uncoordinated mass of limbs and muscle trotting beside her. Yet however he'd been treated, it hadn't dampened his spirits one bit.

She hadn't noticed him before he barked and stared straight into her eyes from across the crowded bazaar. Undoubtedly, the merchant's claim that he'd only livened up after he saw her was nothing more than a sales tactic. Still… there was something about the way he looked at her that went beyond that of a regular animal. Perhaps it could sense the kinship she felt, another free from Chantry control, though she probably gave him more credit than he deserved. Regardless, he was with her now, and she wasn't going to let anyone else lay a hand on him.

They walked the gangway leading to the upper level of her ship, where they entered into a compact living room. The built-in seating and adjustable table were more than a standard Shadow had, which would generally be built for short-term stealth missions.

She hadn't found the additional space essential, even considered it a hazard at first. The bigger the ship, the bigger the reaction needed to shift it, the higher the strain on the Catalyst. The vessel was a visual oddity at that, but… it was hers. Having spent a good week fixing it up had made her more appreciative of that fact than she had been initially. Though she enjoyed giving V a hard time about the ramshackle vehicle, she privately admitted he'd been right to convince her of its value. After all, she wouldn't be going on a short-term mission once she would leave his service. There was also the unplanned addition of a massive dog. A bit more space than the average shuttle would be a welcome luxury. Even their upcoming trip — a couple of weeks with only V for company — would undoubtedly be more taxing in a smaller vessel.

The cockpit lay to the front, while a small hydroponics bay and kitchen filled the back. From here, a steep ladder led to the lower deck. Dog flattened himself against the ground as she climbed down, paws curled around the edge and his nose following her as far as it could, his hot breath tickling her hair.

"Sorry, buddy." She chuckled at the upturned brow that wrinkled his worried forehead. "Once you learn to climb ladders, you can come down here too."

He whined softly in response. From the look on his face, Hawke wondered if he was going to try.

A narrow corridor with doors on either side ran through the ship below deck. There were two small bedrooms, each with a cupboard built into the wall and only just enough room to stand up straight. There were a bathroom and storage as well, and another ladder down that gave access to the engine.

Hawke entered one of the bedrooms and emptied her bag out on the bunk. Clothes, a cassette player with headphones, music tapes with faded labels, her Chantry ID card, and a set of documents. She shrugged out of her jacket and tossed it onto the pile, then picked the tapes out from the rest to stick into her back pockets. Her hand briefly hovered over the file before she picked it up. She searched the room for a place to hide it, her thumb absentmindedly caressing the cover. She settled on shoving it underneath the mattress. Nosy as he was, she wagered even V wouldn't be so bold as to look for her secrets there.

Dog hadn't moved when she returned. He was still looking down into the stairwell, his stumpy tail leading his behind into wild swings of excitement the moment she came into view. He bounced around her as she walked over to the cockpit, deposited the tapes in a drawer and sat down in the pilot's seat — a high-backed chair of faded red leather. There were another two chairs, one on each side and slightly behind hers. One sat at weapons control, the other communications. She could reach it all herself if she needed to, though in a tight situation another set of hands would probably be welcome.

"Up," she directed, pointing at the chair on her right. Dog jumped, making the chair spin as he settled into it. Hawke stopped it with her foot, then leaned in to fasten the seat belt-turned-harness she'd installed. She gave an appreciative nod as the animal sat securely strapped in beside her, panting happily in excited puffs. "Perfect. How about some music?"

He barked in agreement — at least, what she interpreted as agreement — and she began to take the necessary measures. She'd half put the control panel together herself, half augmented what was already there. An older model Shadow formed the core of this pieced-together custom build. It wasn't reliant on the more modern bits of tech the Chantry had started to integrate in recent years. There were no touch displays, no holograms or artificial intelligence. Just tried-and-true switches and relays, gears and valves, pistons, plugs, and wires. She'd hated having to work with the new systems. The insides were so sleek and fused together you'd have to toss the entire thing if one component broke down. When the Enforcers wouldn't allow that, she'd spend hours carefully peeling them apart, terrified of causing more damage. In this ship, she could screw off a panel and look behind it, see the inner workings, know precisely why each display showed what it did and what was wrong when it didn't. She liked that clarity and the independence it gave her — another boon to her new ride.

The music came on as she slid one of the cassettes into the dashboard player, a bootleg recording of an Antivan band she'd never been able to see in person. Their electric instruments filled the cockpit with the swinging notes of a summer dance, bright and colourful, even as the singer told a story of someone caught in a bad romance. Hawke matched her rhythm to that of the song, tapping buttons and flicking switches to the beat as she hummed along. Music was the best tool she'd found to stay grounded in the here and now. Without her cassette player to keep her company, she doubted she would have made it to the _Caravan_ at all.

"Ready to rock?" a voice called out.

She glanced over her shoulder to see V drop his bag onto the couch, then come towards the cockpit. "Born ready," she called back, lowering the volume. "Good to go?"

"Good to go." He came to stand beside her, hand resting on the back of her chair, and looked to Dog. "The mutt has his own seat?"

"First come, first serve."

"Good to know where I stand, I suppose."

"Well, you probably want to sit at some point. Maybe have a lie down once in a while. I'll allow it."

"Thanks, Hawke," V chuckled, "You are too generous. What if we need weapons?"

Dog tilted his head and looked to the controls as if trying to determine whether he could manage that role. Then, faster than anyone could stop it, he lifted a big paw over the panel and brought it down with a smack. V's hand clamped down on her chair, pressing the air out of the leather with a soft _hiss_.

Everything was still… Dog's paw pressed hard on a big, red button. At the same time, V looked on horrified, waiting for what terrible consequence the animal had brought upon them. When all remained quiet, her boss turned to her, eyebrow arched.

"Routed control to my own panel," Hawke said casually, "Disabled that one for now. If I do my job right, we won't need them."

He exhaled faintly and shook his head. "What did I get myself into?"

"A ship?"

"I'm glad you are considering it as such by now," V chuckled as he sat down in the remaining chair. "Have you thought of a name yet?" Hawke pressed a finger to her lips and pretended to think, but before she could speak, he added, "Don't you dare say you're just going to call it 'Ship'."

"Oh, why not?" Hawke grinned, "It's clear, no?"

"And bound to cause a wealth of confusion whenever you need to dock somewhere, I'm sure," he laughed, "but don't you think your first vessel should be called something a little more meaningful?"

"Dog is fine being called Dog."

Dog barked his assent.

"And the ship probably won't have sleepless nights over its name either, even if you called it 'Scrapheap'," V argued, "but this is _your_ ship. You are known by it once you get out there. It's less about what you name _it_ than about what you name _yourself_." He gave her a meaningful look, then turned his attention to the console before him. He'd familiarised himself with it over the past days and now quickly established communication with Leliana in the _Caravan_'s control room. "Nightingale, ready to let us out?"

The radio hissed static at them for a second before her melodic voice answered, "Say the word."

Hawke input the commands to retract the gangway and close the hatch, switched on climate control, and brought up the radar.

"Ready?" he asked her.

"Affirmative." She frowned to herself as she said it, wondering why it sounded odd. V blinked in surprise, clearly agreeing with her. "…Chantry habit," she laughed, feeling her face flush a little, "Ready."

"Aye, Captain," he said with a mock salute. "We're good, Nightingale. Open her up."

A force field sprung to life over the hangar door to keep the atmosphere in the storeroom in place against the vacuum. The door began to slide away, bringing the void beyond into view. Another two ships of the current entourage were visible, but there was plenty of space to move between them.

The engine came on with a roar, then eased into a pleasant hum. There had been a nasty rattle in it during previous tests, but Hawke was happy to hear it gone now. The ship disconnected itself from the ground, drifting upon its thrusters to hover in the air, and retracted its landing gear. Hawke drew a slow breath, a smile spreading across her face, and pushed the throttle.

They soared, one smooth motion as they glided from the hangar and sped away from the fleet. Hawke brought them round, fingers drumming on the steering wheel to the tune of the band, and checked their position on the navigational display. She circled around the _Caravan_ and its followers in a graceful arc, then blasted away at top speed. Within minutes, the markers on the map were growing more distant, until they soon disappeared off-screen altogether. She switched the view to one with a larger scale, showing their planned trajectory.

There was a crackle in Leliana's voice when it sounded from the com again. "Stay safe out there."

"Will do, Nightingale," V answered, "Take care of each other. We'll be in reach for a couple of days still. If you need anything —"

"We'll be fine," she interrupted, "Just watch yourselves. Don't do anything I wouldn't do."

"Why do I feel that doesn't narrow down the options as much as it should?" Hawke joked. "See you later, Red."

They said their final farewells and V closed the channel, ending the connection with a hollow _pop_. Hawke glanced at him. In their current positions, she could only see him from the side. He was frowning slightly, immersed in thought as he ran a long-range scan. She'd seen the look on him before, but only when he thought he was alone, like when she came into his office unannounced, or the time he emerged from his quarters.

"Have you left her in charge before?" she asked.

He looked over, and the melancholy faded from his features. "A few times."

"You seem worried."

"Ah, no…" he chuckled, "They'll be fine. There is just something I wish I could have finished off before leaving, but Leliana can handle it."

"I see."

Hawke turned away and directed her attention to the front. A streak of indigo and magenta painted the velvety darkness in the distance, obscuring the brightness of the twinkling stars. There were more, countless more, on the edges of the frame. Each was a system, like theirs, in its own right. The vastness of it was overwhelming at times, exciting at others. Who knew what kinds of worlds were out there to uncover, what types of people were trying to make a name for themselves?

"So, why'd you name your ship that?" she asked V. "What's the message to the universe?

"Named it what?"

"What do you think? The _Caravan_."

He smiled knowingly, an amused twinkle in each eye. "That's not her name. People started calling her that because of the fleet. I haven't had a reason to correct them."

"Oh?" Hawke was genuinely surprised — she hadn't heard anyone call the ship otherwise. "What's her name then?"

He let his silence stretch on for a few seconds, making a show of pondering whether he wanted to tell her or not. "She was called the _Hanged Man_ originally."

"The Hanged… Man?"

V nodded. "Once upon a time. I'll leave it to you to decide what that's supposed to tell the universe about me." He turned away with a wink, resuming his task of scanning their surroundings.

He sat at his console a while longer, then checked whether she needed him for anything else. When she told him she didn't, he went below deck to pack his things away. Afterwards he was rummaging around the kitchen to make them lunch, which he brought her in the cockpit. He sat down in the living room himself with a stack of documents and a notebook, signalling his existence only with the rustling of paper and pen, barely audible over her music.

Their rhythm established itself without discussion over the following days. V took care of matters related to their personal well-being, while she handled those required by the ship. Sleep, rise, breakfast and checking navigation for the day. Morning hours of scribbling and maintenance, lunch, continue for the afternoon. Dinner, a game of cards. Final check, wash up, rinse, repeat.

Days passed in which little changed beyond the distant colours of the darkness. Hawke was sitting in the cockpit one evening, feet tossed upon her console, pondering this new routine and the person she was sharing it with. It was surprisingly comfortable, and yet… it felt off at the same time. He was quieter than she'd anticipated. They still chatted, but he no longer talked her head off. It was what she'd wanted him to do, or at least to stop inquiring into matters he was better off not knowing about. Now that he had, however, she wasn't sure she liked the alternative. It seemed a wholly unnatural state for him to be in, which made it strangely unsettling.

"We're almost out of range, right?"

She jumped a little in her seat. V had come up behind her, far too quietly for someone so sturdily built. He looked at her in surprise, then laughed.

"Guilty conscience, Hawke? Or were you daydreaming?"

"Neither," she replied, turning the music down a little, "Just good old-fashioned spacing out."

"The best of time-wasters. It's good to have an arsenal of them out here, isn't it?"

"An ability to keep oneself entertained is a valuable skill indeed," she quipped, "Don't go on away missions if you can't stand to be around yourself."

"I guess we'll find out whether we can." He nodded to the communications console. "How long?"

"Ah, soon. If you want to contact someone, you should do it now."

He stared at the radio, momentarily dipping back into that concern she'd seen surface before. "No, it's fine," he said, playing it off with a roguish smirk, "Don't want to make them think I miss them already. They'll exploit it to no end once I'm back."

He turned his back on her and went back to the living area. Hawke watched him go, eyes narrowing as the uneasy feeling crept up on her again. Something was amiss — she'd spent too much time being lied to, being told that she didn't need or wasn't authorised to know, not to be sure of it.

She looked out the window, to the eternal void that appeared to darken the closer they got to the edge of charted space. Few had attempted to go further, and only with limited success. With the Belt continuously in motion, rocks colliding upon one another and breaking apart, it seemed like a fool's errand to try. Those that managed to get through were only met with more emptiness, stretching on for light-years that would take ages to cross.

Historians believed the First once might have been able to jump across the galaxy in the blink of an eye, as V had thought she was able to do. If those stories were true, their secrets had long been lost. Finding such a form of travel was a holy grail among scientists, but none had made significant strides. The best they'd managed was to discover Catalysts, triggering a revolution across the sector in trade and travel. Yet as long as the process required their energy, the distance anyone could traverse was finite, keeping them well within the bounds of their own solar system.

With a sigh, she returned her attention to matters closer to home. V had settled back into his seat and buried himself in his papers again. Hawke bit her lip, considering. She switched on auto-navigation, swivelled around in her chair, and got to her feet in one fluid motion. Dog was napping on his bed but raised his ears in greeting. She leaned against the door frame, still unsure of what she was doing back here until V looked up from his work.

"Problem?"

Hawke shook her head. "Nope… still empty out there."

"Alright." His nose disappeared into his notebook again, while his eyes glanced between it and the page in his hand.

"What are you working on?"

He glanced over, briefly at first, then straightened himself up. Elated disbelief spread across his face in a toothy grin as he pressed a hand to his exposed chest. "Hawke! _You_ are showing an interest in _me_? I am flattered."

"If you're going to be a dick about it —"

"No, no. I am far too in need of company for that," V said, waving her over. "I might actually be one of those people who doesn't like to be around themselves too much."

She hesitated for a second, then sat down on the other bench. "You seem perfectly pleased with yourself to me."

"Of course, I am. That's not the same thing."

He tended to clear off his papers before she joined him at the table at mealtimes. She was surprised to see they weren't charts with numbers or lists of names. Fragments of text instead told of a pickpocket targeting a Chantry officer, the smell and texture of a neglected colony, snappy dialogue between two bounty hunters in a standoff…

"You write?"

"I do," he said casually, "One of my revenue streams. Quite a successful one at that."

Hawke picked up one of the pages. It described buildings of white moon rock and iron scaffolds, workers wearing masks and reflective goggles, clouds of dust that spun spirals in the thin atmosphere.

"Nevarra?"

"Free Moons. Kirkwall, specifically."

"You've been there?"

"Born and raised." He said it proudly.

"Why'd you leave?"

He leaned back, folding his hands behind his head. His artificial arm was slightly bulkier at the shoulder, but the quality of the craftsmanship was unmistakable. He was barely asymmetrical, the mechanical limb almost identical to his real one. "Why not get to the point, Hawke?" he asked, his mouth curving in a sly smirk.

He was forcing her attention to his neckline again, something which she had steadfastly refused to acknowledge so far. She briefly wondered what kind of person he usually dealt with who'd be impressed by it. "You've practically been begging me to show an interest," she teased, "Is it more than you bargained for already?"

"Not at all," he chuckled, "but playing coy is very obviously not your game. Small talk is only going to get us so far for the next weeks, you know? If there is something on your mind, then get to it."

He was deflecting, but she doubted the reason was related to her. "Fine." She crossed her arms. "There is something you're not telling me."

"There are many things we're not telling each other. Isn't that our deal?"

She rolled her eyes. "Do you want me to ask, or —"

A high-pitched _beep_ went off in the cockpit, an alarm she hadn't yet had the chance to learn the meaning of. Dog jumped to his feet when she did, then bounded behind her as she crossed the distance to the control panel. A dot had appeared on the radar, still a long distance away, but far too close for comfort. V appeared beside her. They stood frozen for a long moment, staring at the innocuous speck blinking on the border of the display. Hawke felt her heart still in her chest, wary in anticipation.

"Get me their signature," she ordered, sitting down in her seat.

"Got it," he confirmed, following her example. "I thought we avoided the patrol routes?"

"We did," Hawke said through gritted teeth, "It was nowhere to be seen before. They must have shifted here."

He nodded and input the commands while she adjusted their heading. "Chantry," he confirmed a moment later, "Cruiser class."

"Exploration mission perhaps."

"Here? You said it yourself, there's nothing out there."

"Patrol then," she murmured, glaring at the readings, "but off-route for some reason."

"Shit." V's eye went to the tube hanging from the ceiling behind her. It was made of thick, translucent rubber, and ended in a pin-shaped plug. Blue liquid swirled within, washing the warmth from his eyes. "Can you get us out of here?"

"Yeah, don't worry." She grabbed the plug and yanked it down, pulling the tube towards her neck.

"Unknown Chantry Vessel. State your identity."

Their eyes snapped to the radio speaker from which a metallic voice had invaded their space. They hadn't had a reason to run in stealth mode and she'd wanted to preserve her energy. Instead, she'd banked on the fact that Shadows had low emissions. The ship shouldn't be able to pick them up at this range… and yet it had. Hawke cursed under breath. Damn the blighted fool that had salvaged this engine.

"They think we're Chantry?" V asked. "Why?"

"Each lyrium core manufactured by the Chantry has a unique identifier," she explained automatically, running options through her head, "This one as well — we're emitting a Chantry signature as a result. If we're lucky, this one isn't blacklisted in their database."

"Can we still run? Perhaps we can make it to the Belt. You can lose them there, right?"

"Chantry Vessel," the radio repeated, more demanding, "Enable your visual link."

"Hawke?"

Hawke sat frozen, hand behind her head with the lyrium interface an inch removed from her implant. Though her body was still, gears were spinning in her head like mad. They could jump, be gone before they knew what happened. Perhaps they would pick up their signal again when she resurfaced, set a pursuit. If it was possible to reach the Belt, she wasn't sure at what cost. Then again…

She and V weren't supposed to be here, but neither was this vessel. V was right, there was nothing out there. A spying operation on Dweller activity perhaps, or something else that wasn't supposed to draw attention. The presence of another Chantry vessel was as surprising to that crew as it was to them.

An idea formed in her head, a chance to answer a question that had occupied her ever since she'd run away. She could still try for an escape if it went south, though they'd likely be on her tail. Hawke bit her lip, weighing the risk, then swallowed back her nerves and made up her mind.

She released the tube and turned to the communication's interface, pushing V's hands away. His eyes grew wide as he watched her open the channel.

"Greetings, Chantry Cruiser," she said in her most trained voice, "We cannot establish a visual link. Request to avoid these coordinates and disregard our presence from your logs."

V mimed insanity at her, and she silently shushed him in return. "Disregard?" the voice answered. "State your identity!"

"Our identity is classified," she replied firmly, "Project Code Vimmark. Continue your route."

She wondered if V's eyes would fall from his skull if they became any wider. He stared in pure concentration at the radio, sweat beading his brow and a deep frown twisting his laugh lines beyond recognition. Static hummed on the line for several long, agonising seconds, until the voice popped back in.

"Affirmative. Blessings upon you."

"… And you."

V ended the communication with a sharp _tap_ of the button, then immediately got to work on their sensors. They watched in silence as the dot on the radar flashed several more times before it began to move away. It disappeared off the edge a few minutes later, then vanished from long-range readings as well.

He exhaled a quivering breath, relaxing against her as she let her head drop to the console. "Project Code Vimmark?" he asked, "Not that dancing around each other's secrets hasn't been fun, Hawke, but I think it's time we revisit our deal."


	10. Dorian - III

How the _Siren's Call_ had become one of the most revered pirate ships in the system, Dorian had no clue. Its crew had the reputation of swooping in undetected, boarding the unsuspecting target before the other even had a chance to consult their sensors. Only those who resisted ended up dead or wounded. More often, everyone on board left an encounter with the vessel unharmed, though woefully stripped of cargo and possessions. He'd imagined the ship responsible must have been state-of-the-art, upgraded and customised to operate at peak efficiency in a way that put Tevinter's best to shame.

The interior was anything but that. Before stepping out of the storage cupboard, Dorian assumed that would be the worst part of the ship. Yet he soon found that, rather than it being the exception to the rule, it was the herald of quality one could expect throughout the entire vessel. Flaking paint, exposed pipes, shuddering plates whenever they made a course adjustment… It didn't even seem to have a new type of lyrium engine. The liquid swirling through the tubes had the colour of a pale sky rather than vibrant cerulean as if it had been diluted to stretch its longevity well beyond reason.

The ship wasn't large and had a narrow command deck towards the front, with windows all around, and consoles lined up behind one another. The last was clearly the lyrium interface — a single, battered seat upon which the blue conduits converged before disappearing underneath its frame. Dorian halted at the door as he followed Isabela in, blinking against the darkness. At the same time, she continued on to the helm where Fenris sat. His white hair was aglow in the bloom of the suns off their port side. Dorian scanned visible space for New Minrathous and cursed under his breath when he didn't spot it.

"Do we have a signal?"

Fenris looked up at Isabela, who had rested her hand on the back of his seat. "No, we've moved out of range. Why?"

Isabela glanced back towards Dorian hovering in the entryway. "We're going to check with V," she stated, a little reluctantly, "Something's off."

"Because he says it is?" the man argued, his anger once again flaring quickly, "I didn't go through that trouble only to bring V a present."

"If he's valuable, V is going to pay us for securing him."

"Does he even want to talk to you? You left his bar in rather a state last time."

"V's not one to hold grudges," Isabela laughed, "That kind of money, more people are going to be looking for him. He should be happy we got to him first. There are bad people out there, you know?" Her hand moved from the chair to his shoulder instead. "Work with me? Pretty please?"

Fenris looked to her hand, then to Dorian. "Very well," he sighed, "V should be somewhere on the other end of the sector right now, though. We'll need to find a transmitter to hijack if you want to talk to him."

"Going back is not an option, I suppose?"

"I would recommend against it," he shrugged, "You have made yourself rather visible raiding that transport the other day. Only a matter of time before they put you up for bounty again."

A playful flare swirled up from the primary sun's surface, like a dolphin bounding from the water, and disappeared in a blazing shower of sparks. The orange light cast heavy shadows across the pair, who stood silently watching each other for a long moment. Isabela pursed her lips, her fingers lightly tapping on her pilot's shoulder. "Alright then." She leaned across him and pressed some buttons. "Head for Antiva. Should be safe there for the moment."

"Better get her in here as well then."

She pulled back in surprise. "You want to shift? I am shocked!"

"We should not linger," Fenris countered, rolling his eyes, "Especially not if more people might be looking for him."

"Good point." Isabela's brass jewellery swung from her ears as she turned back towards the door. "Can anyone trace you?"

Dorian weighed his options. His head was still pounding, his muscles stiff. It made him no more eager to aid their quest for coin at his expense than he would be otherwise. Yet, even though lying had become second nature to him over the years, he already tired at the deception required if he wanted to keep the most essential secrets from spilling. Truth it was then, at least for the moment.

"No," he said, shaking his head, "Tevinter doesn't register Catalysts."

"Not human ones," Fenris growled.

Ignoramus, Dorian's mind spat back. "Test subjects are registered," he explained patiently, "Of any race or species. They are anonymous, however, for obvious ethical reasons. You wouldn't be able to match the Trace to the person, even if you had it."

The First snorted dismissively, but Isabela held up a hand to warn him off. It was enough to dissuade him, for he focused on his work instead. "Whatever you need to tell yourself to sleep at night, Catalyst," he said in a low rumble, flicking some switches on the overhead panel. The view outside began to shift in response, moving away from the blazing suns and towards the darkness.

"Whether he's traceable or not, better not take the risk." Isabela sat down at the console behind Fenris' and pressed another couple of buttons. "All hands to stations," she announced into the intercom, "We'll initiate a shift. Make it quick."

Dorian watched their progress on one of the screens. Though it had a large crack down the middle and more dead pixels than live ones, it still managed to display their course. Antiva, with the terraformed moon Rivain, was some weeks away on full impulse, less with Catalyst assistance. He swallowed as the icon indicating their position began to move, taking him even further from home than he'd ever been before.

Something bumped against his back and let out a small squeak. Dorian turned around to find a pair of large, green eyes staring up at him from the dark. They belonged to another First, a small and slender female with dark hair and tattoos on her face.

"Pardon me. Not the best place to stand, is it?" She spoke in an accent he'd never heard before — a cheerful, sing-songy sound that glided smoothly between her stretched vowels and gently rolled r's.

"My apologies, miss," Dorian replied, stepping out of her way with a light bow. "I fear I find myself a little displaced at present."

"Ancestors," she laughed. "Polite one, aren't you?"

"Sit down," Fenris ordered without looking back. "We need to get going."

"Yes, Kitten, stop your flirting," Isabela teased, turning around to lean over the backrest of her seat. "We're in a bit of a rush."

A blush rushed to the girl's cheeks. "I wasn't flirting!" She cast Dorian a furtive glance before she proceeded to the last seat in the row.

He followed a little behind. Clearly, this was their Catalyst, but he wasn't sure how the girl did her job. Her neck showed no implant, nor did this chair seem to have a plug to connect to even if it did. She sat down, wiggled a little in the seat to get comfortable, then blushed again when she noticed him looking at her.

"You probably want to find yourself a place to sit," she suggested. "It might get a little bumpy."

"Ah… thank you." He looked around for another seat. The only option left was a small foldout chair attached to the wall. It gave a pained squeak when he lowered it, and although there was a seat belt, the buckle wouldn't close when he tried it. "Perfect," he mumbled, settling on holding on to the creaky bench with both hands instead.

"Ready?" Isabela asked.

The girl's slim chest rose with her breath. The armrests on her chair were capped with enclosures. She slid her hands forward, where they disappeared within them. A slight _click_ sounded twice, followed by a hiss that was nearly lost in the rumble of the engine. She closed her eyes, a pained frown lightly crinkling the lines decorating her forehead. The liquid in the piping pulsed in response to the beat of her heart. When she opened her eyes again, they were green no longer.

"Ready," she replied in a hollow voice. "Where are we going?"

"Forwarding coordinates," Isabela told her, "Just get us as far as you can."

"Aye."

"Engaging engine," Fenris informed them, "Ready to go in three…"

Dorian's fingers clenched around the edge of his seat. The girl checked the panel in front of her, then straightened herself up. She stared out over the heads of her crew, her bright gaze fixed on their destination somewhere in the void.

"Two…"

Dorian had never controlled a ship in such a manner. He wondered if she could see it in her present state — Antiva's ochre sands, the endless ocean that covered its moon, the stars that lay beyond…

His mind prodded him out of his musings. It derided him for the quiver trembling in his body, for his attempt to distract himself with other thoughts than the ones related to the situation at hand. He told it to be quiet but didn't manage to divert himself again before Fenris' voice rang through the cabin one more time.

"One."

The wall display, crackling with noise on the best of days, blew its remaining pixels out to perfect white. The ship groaned under the strain as space began to distort around it. Blackness twisted with bursts of blue and purple, stretching stars from dots to streaks.

Dorian squinted against the blinding blaze enveloping the view, clamping onto his seat with such force it made his shivering muscles ache. His mind's voice grew louder, incoherently shouting unintelligible things at him he usually took every effort to suppress. Images flashed behind his eyes of shapeless creatures looming overhead, incomprehensible visions of architecture and landscapes that flickered in and out of existence. His hands released the seat and moved to his head, forcing him to remember who it was attached to. He bit his tongue to feel it, fighting the urge the scream.

It was gone as quickly as it had started. The light died out, casting the cockpit back into the half-dark. The girl, Merrill, leaned back in her seat, sliding her hands from the enclosures and onto her lap. Her eyes were closed, and her breath remained strained for a few long seconds as she collected herself.

"Systems?" Isabela inquired.

"Damage to that old nacelle," Fenris replied. "Stable otherwise. Shockingly."

"You suggested it, you go out to fix it." The pirate queen turned around in her seat. "You alright, Kitten?"

Merrill drew another breath and opened her eyes. "Yes," she smiled, "Did we get far enough?"

Isabela nodded. "Easily halved the journey. Go rest, alright?"

Merrill nodded and got up from her chair. Dorian stayed where he was a moment longer, impressed with how quickly she'd returned to normal. He was still feeling squeamish himself, and he hadn't even been the one in the hot seat. More modern and larger transports did a far better job at smoothing out such a journey.

"Take him with you, will you?" Isabela added as Merrill reached the door, nodding to Dorian. "Show him where he'll be staying."

"Not in the cupboard?" he quipped weakly.

"Not unless you really want to, pretty boy. You look like you could use a bed to me," she replied, flashing a teasing grin. "Lucky for you, you don't even need to share it."

The ordeal had not improved his headache. He, therefore, ignored Isabela's jab at his forced lifestyle and rose unsteadily to his feet. Merrill stood patiently waiting for him — a little glassy-eyed but seeming fine otherwise.

"Through here," she said, gesturing into the hallway.

He followed her back into the corridor and through a living area. Several beat-up couches bolted to the floor, stood around a low table, pointed at a TV set. They came across a few more people here, men in their thirties and forties, who eyed them suspiciously in passing.

"Casavir, Adaran, Eaden," Merrill listed, pointing them out. "They work below deck, mainly. Maintenance and such."

"How about you? Did they capture you?"

"Capture me?" She laughed brightly. "No, I wouldn't say so. I was part of an Elvhen crew, but… we had a difference of opinion. I left and ended up on Rivain, where I met Bela."

"What did you disagree on?"

"Research methods," she explained with a mild shrug.

Dorian's ears pricked up at the mention of research. It was rare to encounter a First at conferences or other scientific venues, and they did not generally submit their work to any of the major publications. He'd heard of nomadic crews who went around, seeking out the ancient knowledge of their ancestors. Still, they were encountered so rarely they seemed more like a myth than a reality.

"What do you research?" he asked.

Her eyes lit up. "Elvhen history, their technology in particular. There is so much potential, you know? So many things we've lost that could be reclaimed. Bela lets me go ahead with it, in return for my work. She's quite nice, you know? Just wants people to be free."

"Unless there's enough cash on the line to capture one," Dorian countered with a smile. "So, what are you working on at the moment?"

"Ah!" She seemed positively ecstatic someone would show an interest in her work. He didn't doubt among this crew of degenerates it was a rare occurrence. "I'll show you if you want."

"I'd love to. Anything to distract me from this headache and the fact that I've been abducted against my will."

She halted at a bulkhead door with a large wheel but didn't turn it. Instead, she stood uncomfortably beside it, the blush creeping over her cheeks once more. "It's not my decision, you know," she said, scratching the point of her ear, "I don't really like what we do, but Bela has been good to me. I've been told your bounty could really fix up this ship."

"You don't have an accountant on board, I suppose?" Dorian said, eyeing the rusted patches peeking out from behind the paint, "I expected being the most notorious pirate crew in the sector would pay a little better than this."

"Well, it's quite an involved process," Merrill murmured, "It's rare to find precious cargo, and you always still need to find a buyer. Some of the older crew say it's gotten harder over time with the Chantry expanding their influence too. Many other ships have decided it's easier to just become a licensed trading vessel instead."

"You'd be leashed if that happened," Dorian observed.

"Aye," she nodded, "and Bela would never agree to such a life either. There's not much left from most jobs once the crew has been paid, but at least we can make our own choices. There is value in that."

"Well," Dorian sighed, "I suppose I can't argue with that."

A quick smile flashed across her face, and she turned the wheel. Dorian followed her inside, into a room that was no more well-kept than the rest of the ship, yet surprisingly nicely decorated. Drapes with unfamiliar symbols hid the welding seams and peeling walls, and an eclectic collection of rugs covered the floor. A bunk bed was mounted on the far wall, and a large desk stood against the other. The tabletop was littered with papers and books, as well as a bunch of rusted machine parts.

Dorian recognised the bag lying on the bottom bed as his own and was relieved to find his belongings still inside of it. He sat down and opened his laptop, but the battery was completely drained. He searched his bag again, only to find one glaring omission. "Where is the charger?"

"I've been told you'll get it back when we drop you off." She shuffled in place. "Just to be sure."

He let his eyes fall closed and shut the lid on his computer. "Very well," he sighed, quietly admitting defeat for the moment. He'd find somewhere to sap power from later to be ready for the moment they'd be in the range of Antiva's transmitter. He still wasn't sure who he might contact that could help, but that was a problem to solve for when his head hurt less. "So," he continued conversationally, "I will be staying here?"

"If that's alright. Or… I guess, regardless of whether it's alright," Merrill corrected herself. "The bed is free, and it's quiet here. Better than if you'd sleep with the rest of the crew, they don't all take so kindly to Catalysts… and it's more comfortable than the cupboard."

Dorian nodded and looked around. All in all, it could be worse. He got up to study the table, where the old machine components dully reflected the overhead lights. They were ancient-looking, though she appeared to be in the process of cleaning them. "What are these?"

"What I am working on," Merrill said, her voice springing up a note, "I took it with me from my old crew. I believe it was once capable of mediating a connection to the Fade far more advanced than what we can do with current engines." Her large eyes flicked up from the table and locked onto his. "I understand humans don't pay much attention to our teachings, but you know what we used to be capable of, right?"

"It is said you could traverse space instantly," he nodded, "but… it's a mathematical impossibility. You believe this machine was capable of such a feat?"

"Not on its own," she replied, shaking her head, "but with the help of a Catalyst… maybe. Of course, the technology is vastly different from what we have now. Similarly, Catalysts might have been as well."

"Until a few decades ago, they were considered mad and locked away," Dorian scoffed. He picked up one of the parts and held it to the light. It had more symbols engraved on it, though they were clouded by layers of dirt. "I'd say that's different."

"They're still locked away," Merrill countered, "Just not considered as mad anymore. I mean something more substantial — a time when we were closer to our ancestors, in a physiological sense."

Dorian bit his lip. There were many interpretations of where sentient life had come from, both religious and scientific ones. He wasn't sure what this girl believed, but it sounded dangerously close to a viewpoint he could hardly leave uncontested.

"You mean… the Fade?"

It was one theory, and one he was willing to entertain — that life in their universe had once started from the bio-matter that filled the quantum realm. It was a fact that humankind and Dwellers had evolved from the First. It was a likely scenario that the First could have done so from a speck of genetic material that crossed the Veil in some cosmic event.

"I mean its inhabitants," Merrill said without reservations. She'd be laughed out of the room if she ever presented that viewpoint at a conference, but she seemed utterly oblivious to it. "Old texts suggest we were not so different, once upon a time."

He refrained from rolling his eyes. "There is no data to suggest there is sentient life in the Fade," he began to explain, "It's all just —"

"What did you hear before?" Merrill asked, unblinking. "When we shifted?"

"Voices," he answered automatically, ready to counter an argument he had many times before. "I saw things too. It is our mind interpreting the physiological response to the lyrium and shifting out of normal existence. It compensates."

"Does your data prove that?"

"It… is the most likely explanation."

"You have your explanations," Merrill smiled, "I have mine. I believe in what I can see, and what I can see when I use my abilities is that there is a whole world out there that we do not understand. I am not afraid to admit that. Are you?"

Dorian snorted a laugh. Wrong as she was, she was more fun to argue with than many of his direct colleagues. "I am not," he said, returning her smile, "but we'll have plenty of time to debate what that means."

Her smirk swam before him, suddenly blurry in another hurtful surge emanating from the back of his skull. When her features cleared again, she wasn't smiling anymore. "Time for a nap, I think," she said instead, gently taking his arm in delicate fingers to usher him back to the bed, "Don't think you'll be doing much debating for long without one."

During their remaining trip to Antiva, Dorian spent most of his time with Merrill in their shared quarters. Though he was allowed in other parts of the ship, that liberty went mostly unused. The less he saw of his assailant, the better, and while Isabela seemed like someone he could have fun with in any other setting, she hadn't endeared herself to him in their current one. Instead, he looked over Merrill's findings, documents and data files she had taken from her previous crew or found in between raiding jobs when Isabela allowed the detours.

Most of the First's knowledge had been lost once humans took over as the dominant race, in a bloody war that lasted for decades. Tevinter had been at the height of its power then, well before the colonies eventually rebelled and reduced it to its current state. Now the Chantry sat on most of the old sites, unwilling to share the potential knowledge still hidden within. It was rare to see any of it outside of their control. Even if all Merrill had were bits and pieces, it was still a fascinating way to spend the time while he waited for his eventual fate.

He hadn't come up with a plan. His laptop was charged, something quite easily accomplished by asking Merrill a few more times after she'd warmed up to him. Still, it was useless to him until they were near a transmitter. Furthermore… he still wasn't sure who could even help. It wasn't a great feeling, realising you were completely alone in the universe, with not a single soul to turn to. Billions of people, and the only one he'd thought of who might offer him some salvation was a mysterious client he'd never met before. The state of his life would depress him, if he let it. Fortunately, he'd become extraordinarily apt at refusing it that pleasure.

He helped Merrill clean the machinery parts she'd recovered, enticed by what their use might have been. However, he didn't share her hypothesis that it once allowed for instant travel. She was adamant, yet she never got angry at him for believing otherwise. On the one hand, she was infuriating to argue with, for she ignored figures and facts as readily as if they were things he'd just fantasised into existence. On the other, she did it with such good humour and kind manners, he was much more inclined to accept her counter evidence than he'd be with someone else.

"Have you ever thought what you're trying to do…" Merrill glanced at him with an unmatched eagerness. "_If_ what you're trying to do is possible," Dorian inserted, to which she smiled bashfully, "Have you thought of the consequences should you succeed?"

"Consequences?" She blinked. "We'd be able to reclaim a huge part of our history. If we used to be able to go anywhere, we must have gone far beyond this system. Elvhen with that ability might still be out there as we speak! The things we could find… isn't it exciting?"

"It is," he admitted, "but… I would not like to think about what people might do with that power. If you can't protect it from falling into the wrong hands — and there are more wrong hands than right ones, I assure you — there is no telling what they might do with it. Do you trust the Chantry with such power? Tevinter?"

She looked to the ceiling. The ship rattled lightly around them, its vibrations resonating in the unstable light they'd been working by. Even once Dorian's injury had recovered, the poor setup did nothing to prevent more headaches from occurring. He stretched his neck to relieve it until she was silent for so long he began to wonder if she'd forgotten the question. Just as he was about to repeat it, she looked back.

"I don't," she said simply, "But while I can't know what others would do, I don't believe my people would misuse it."

"Are you sure of that?"

The door swung open without warning, making Merrill jump a little in her seat. Fenris stood in the doorway, glowering as much as any of the other times Dorian had come across him. His sharp eyes drifted over the pair sitting cramped around the desk, and he expelled a short huff through his nose.

"We'll be contacting V shortly," he announced, "Come to the front."

He turned around without another word and disappeared down the hall, leaving the door wide open. Dorian's heart thumped quietly in his chest, hinging on the verge of sudden panic. "Is he always like this?" he asked casually, turning back to the table.

"We're not the best of friends," Merrill sighed, twisting the lid on a bottle of cleaning solvent, "He's worse about you. Not that I can blame him, but I wish he wouldn't base his judgement of every Catalyst on his own bad experience."

He helped her clean up, and they went out together. Dorian nerves bundled in his stomach, playing with the meagre breakfast he'd consumed that morning. "What was his experience?"

"Ah…" She looked to her feet as they descended a staircase, her boots making light _clunks_ on the metal grate. "He was a test subject," she said eventually, "On Tevinter. Someone trying to create artificial Catalysts by infusing a person with lyrium."

"I see," Dorian said quietly. "The tattoos…"

Merrill nodded. "Power of a Catalyst, but none of the mental instability. I understand the procedure was harrowing… and it didn't work."

"Seems like it worked a bit. It's an interesting idea."

"Don't ever tell him that," she warned.

"He signed up for it willingly, didn't he? Despite popular belief, we don't actually force anyone into labour on Tevinter... anymore. Unlike the Chantry."

Merrill's voice was quiet when she spoke again. "Is it willingly, if it's the only option you have at making a living?"

He didn't know how to answer her and remained silent until they reached the cockpit. Isabela stood once again leaning over Fenris' seat. A waveform oscillated on the screen, signifying the static coming in over the system.

"Caravan, come in," she said. "Do you read?"

The line jumped in a crackle, then evened out. A woman's voice came on, one that did not fit with the descriptions he'd heard of V in the time he'd been aboard. "Bela? We did not expect you to check in any time soon."

"Leliana, my dear," Isabela said jovially, "I just couldn't stay away from you."

"_Vraiment?_ I suppose you are ready to pay for the damage your crew did last time then?" the woman on the other end said teasingly, "V will be pleased to hear it."

"Surely you don't hold a couple of broken glasses against me, Red. I thought we were closer than that."

"Broken glasses, perhaps. Broken noses of our clientele… more of an issue."

Fenris glanced at Isabela, in what Dorian interpreted as a silent 'I told you so', but she waved him away. "I have something of V's here that I'm sure will make those broken noses quite forgotten," she said. "Something quite valuable that many people are after. I did you the courtesy of securing it before someone else. It's all yours… for the right price, of course."

It remained silent for a moment. "What have you got, Bela?" A hard edge had crept into the woman's tone. It hadn't been there before, not even when they discussed the pirate queen's debt. It sent a light shiver down Dorian's spine that made him less eager to go to wherever she was.

"V's underground man, the one who lifts my bounty and who knows what else he needs him to do. Dorian Pavus is his name, in case you didn't know — a fancy runaway from Tevinter." She glanced towards him with a satisfied smirk. "I can either hand him back to Tevinter, for a very lucrative deal, or we can come to an agreement. Can you get V on the line? I'm sure he'd like to negotiate this one himself."

Dorian's nerves climbed up from his stomach and into his throat. The silent _hum_ on the line buzzed in his ears, strangling his breath. His hand unconsciously went to the artefact he wore around his neck, hidden deep under his clothes, and closed around it. He wasn't sure what he'd thought might happen with this plan of his, impromptu and ill-conceived as it was. Either he was on his way to some pirate hole, or Isabela would turn the ship right around with all the consequences that would bring. Neither was appealing, especially now that they were so close at hand.

A tired breath crackled through the speaker. "Isabela, _tu petite sotte_," the girl sighed, "_Qu'as-tu fais là?_ Get him over here, at once!"


	11. Cullen - III

Ferelden, Tevinter's first colony, was known across the sector for its weather. Not because it was pleasant by any stretch of the word, but rather for its variety. Most of Tevinter was hot and humid year-round, Nevarra bleak on the verge of gloom. Antiva provided a pleasant in-between with a temperamental flare, and the extravagant tourist trap of Orlais an artificially maintained equilibrium of simulated perfection. In contrast, Ferelden's population had latched on to their planet's tumultuous identity as a source of pride — their people could weather any storm, and their sky was never still.

Cloud formations would playfully chase the dawn across the marshes, then lazily clump together in built-up anticipation for the next downpour. They bellowed their anger at the rocky hills, conjuring electric storms that shook the foundations of the staunch apartment blocks, or acid rains that threatened to eat them away. People could leave home in the morning dressed for summer, freeze by midday, and arrive home drenched come evening.

But when Cullen stepped out from the shuttle, he found that, for the first time that he could recall, Ferelden had no weather at all. There was no rustle of the wind, no colours to paint the concrete, no patches of clear sky to let through the light, weak on the best of days. While the area had not been directly impacted by the debris from the Circle, the extended effects were prominent nonetheless.

The streets of Redcliffe's L57 section were hazy with dust. The area had not been evacuated, yet there were few tracks to disturb the thick layer of powder smothering the ground. Sets of military boots tracing their patrol routes, tire tracks from a delivery vehicle, a slightly opened door allowing a quick glance into the street. Shop windows were still, and their shutters were drawn. Instead of people living their lives, guards stood posted at every corner, watching for Catalyst activity.

The away team, comprised of Cullen, Meredith herself, and two other officers, set foot upon the surface. Karras and Mettin looked around them with sharp eyes, rifles held tightly and fingers on the trigger. Though they hadn't been ordered to draw their weapons, Meredith did not tell them otherwise. Cullen wondered whether he should question her decision on entering a civilian area armed until he noticed they were not the only ones. The Enforcers maintaining the curfew stood at the ready, their weapons resting against their shoulders. It had been a long time since the Chantry made such a show of force in these parts. The previous time had been after his last visit, for reasons he'd rather forget.

An angry voice drew their attention to the edge of the plaza, where a man argued with two Enforcers. Cullen wasn't surprised to see him openly disagreeing with the law, especially this off-shore force that had suddenly taken residence in the colony and restricted them to their homes. Many had grown wary of outside influence since the rebellion against Tevinter. Ferelden, where the fighting had been thickest, in particular. The Chantry had risen from the ashes of that war. It was an institution meant to end all strife, with representation from each of the newly independent planets, and founded on the principles of Andrastianism, the system's dominant religion. It dealt with sector-wide matters, employed a joint army, and handled Catalyst control. Though its approval ratings remained high, taking far-reaching measures in a place as this was bound to ruffle some feathers.

"Go home, sir," one of the soldiers told the man. "It is for your own safety."

"I worked fourteen 'ours a day in that mine before you shut it down, sonny!" the man argued back, tensing his burly shoulders. "Never have I needed one of your lot to come in 'ere and show concern for my safety! I need to work to put food on the table."

"It is necessary to halt production until we have rooted out the possibility of further Apostate activity," the second Enforcer sighed, "You will be compensated for the time you were not able to work."

"Aye, so they say. And when'll that be, eh?" The man shook his head as he turned away. He glared in their direction as they approached the two officers instead. "Pretty ships and polished boots they can make, but clearing off some debris takes 'em months!" He spat on the ground before he entered one of the buildings and slammed the door shut behind him.

"Blessings," Meredith greeted the two officers, "Do you get a lot of that here?"

"Blessings, Captain. Aye, a bit," the first said. "They're decent people, just frustrated with the situation."

"They've got that terrorist to blame for it," his colleague snorted, "They can stop taking it out on us."

"The people will find someone to blame," Meredith replied, "Most often, it will be us. It's part of the job, don't let it get to you."

"Yes, ma'am. Thank you."

She inquired after the address they were looking for, and they left the pair behind. Cullen followed her closely as she strode through the deserted streets, her boots kicking up the ash in billowing puffs. Meredith had pulled a device from her pocket — a black box slightly larger than the palm of her hand, with a spiral antenna sticking out the top and a touch display on the front. A tracer, a newer model than what he'd been trained to use, that beeped lightly as it tried to pick up Marian Hawke's signal.

They zigzagged between the buildings, descending down into the old quarry-turned-residential area, and turned into a narrow alleyway. Away from the main roads, the scenery had quickly changed. Clean, squarely shaped buildings, neatly aligned in a grid, made way for those of flaking mortar patched with corrugated iron. Discarded equipment from the mines was repurposed for other use — carts to collect old bottles and trash, thick steel cables suspended between the buildings for hanging laundry, dismantled machinery stripped for parts worth a few coins.

Meredith halted in front of a ramshackle apartment complex. Most of its windows were boarded up, and the door hung crookedly in its hinges. She looked at the device, which signals had become more frequent the closer they got. Even if their target had not been here for weeks, it still picked up her resonance.

His captain clicked her tongue in disapproval. "She used her skills," she concluded, "Avoiding detection. The disruption they cause, even in controlled use. Sometimes I wonder..."

"Wonder what, ma'am?" Cullen inquired.

"No matter." She pocketed the tracer and drew her weapon. "Second floor, apartment twenty. Take point."

Cullen nodded and followed her example. The dark steel and black leather lay comfortably in his hand. He glanced behind him to the team, to the two men and woman who observed him back with steely eyes, and walked up the crumbling steps to the door.

The insides were crumbling as much as their shell. Trash was piled up in the hallways, its stink permeating the thin air. Cullen fought down a wave of sickness, taking small breaths through his mouth as he pushed through, his trusted weapon leading the way. They ascended to the first floor, sidestepping the cracks in the stairs. He kept his ears peeled — filtering out the shuffles beyond the walls, the muffled rhythm of their own deliberate steps, and the chafing of their body armour — to the faint signals of a Catalyst disturbance.

They swiftly moved down the hall, hearing the locks click into place behind the doors as they passed them by. Apartment ten... twelve... fourteen… sixteen. Someone was on the upper level as they approached the next stairs, but quickly turned tail and ran down the hall. Bare feet scurried overhead, and a door slammed shut moments later. Cullen pointed his weapon into the stairwell, quickly pivoting to cover the open space as he emerged on the next landing. He let out a quiet breath. The hall was empty, the doors shut tight.

They reached apartment twenty, where the number on the door had largely faded away. Karras and Mettin took position on either side, rifles ready at shoulder height. Cullen raised his fist to knock, but Meredith clicked her tongue. The tiniest shake of her head was enough to convey the order.

He hesitated briefly, then pointed his weapon at the lock. The metal burst apart, the blast ringing in his ears. He didn't hear the impact of his own kick busting open the rest, nor the woman screaming when the group stormed inside, forceful and swift, or her sobs as she threw herself to the ground.

A man stood frozen in the corner, his hands partway held up in surrender. Cullen kept his weapon trained on him while he scanned the room. No other doors or points of entry. One window, broken. A small counter with a hotplate in the corner, table in the centre, low beds on the other side. No other people.

The man shuddered as Cullen looked back to him. "State your —"

"On the ground!" Karras bellowed, jabbing the point of his weapon in that direction. "Now!"

"P-please," the man stammered, staring at them with wide eyes, "We do not —"

Mettin pushed past Cullen, grabbed the man by his forearm, and roughly pulled him forward. He slammed the handle of his rifle between his shoulder blades, forcing him to the ground to lay beside the shivering woman. "Put your hands on your head!" he barked, placing one foot on the man's back.

"He's down, Lieutenant," Cullen warned him. "Ease off!"

The two soldiers glared at him. Though they didn't continue their assault, they didn't back down either. Meredith, who had been at the rear, stepped forward. A slight lift of her chin caused the others to take a single step backwards, though they kept their weapons fixed on the pair on the ground.

Meredith knelt down beside them. "Carver Hawke?"

The man shook his head vigorously. "No, ma'am. No one by that name here."

"Don't lie to me."

"I do not! Please... we want no trouble."

"This address is registered to the Hawke family. Are you trespassing?"

"Our… our house was destroyed in the attack. We heard this stood empty. We're only staying until we get assigned new, we don't know the people who lived here!"

Meredith leaned back, scepticism written across her sharp features. "Is that so? What are your names?"

"Moore, ma'am. Harris Moore. My wife, Getty."

The woman gave a strangled sob in confirmation. Meredith's chest rose in a contained sigh, her annoyance palpable in the silence. It hung heavily over the pair, pressing them deeper into the dust. Carver Hawke, the target's sibling, had been their best lead. Without him to interrogate, they could only keep tracing her signal — a time-intensive process Meredith had undoubtedly been eager to avoid. They'd have to check their story, yet Cullen didn't doubt the pair on the ground weren't connected to the Hawkes. More likely, they'd simply been in the wrong place at the wrong time… nothing more.

Then he heard it. It was faint and warped, like notes of a familiar song calling out from deep beneath an ocean's surface. A chill ran down his spine, and he tightened the grip on his weapon in a reflex. His heartbeat quickened, sending his shallow breath in overdrive. He scanned the room again with heightened senses, watching for the sign that would give them away — a glimmer, a glitch, a flaw in reality that would suggest the existence of another. Karras glanced at him, looking at the young commander's shivers with amused disdain, but Cullen ignored it. His attention instead landed on the kitchen block, where an erroneous shimmer pulled across the broken tiles.

"Captain."

Meredith's eyes narrowed as she looked in the direction he'd pointed his weapon. She pulled the device from her pocket and flipped it open. It immediately resumed its rapid beeping in response to the target's resonance, until she pressed a few buttons on the control panel. The device switched to general scanning. It beeped slowly for a few long seconds, then gave a high-pitched screech.

The others snapped their focus to the corner in unison, pointing their weapons at the distortion forming among the kitchen cabinets. It warped the dirt-clod wall, twisted the metal of the countertops as if turned liquid and rippled across the threadbare carpet. The pots and pans crumpled in on themselves, pulled into the folds of the weakening barrier between Fade and regular space.

"Cease what you are doing!" Meredith straightened herself up, raising her weapon to eye level. "You can't escape."

The fissure reached into the room, spreading towards them like a blot of ink on curling water. Cullen felt the voices probing his mind, slithering just beneath his consciousness. They clamoured for his attention, attempting to unravel his self-control by dragging his memories to the fore. He shut it down, focusing instead on the humanoid form that flickered atop the kitchen counter.

White eyes stared into the barrels of their guns, chest heaving with shaking breath. Male or female, it was impossible to tell. The figure was motionless, frozen in time and space as it sat perched between dimensions. Cullen barely heard the man protesting, the woman's cries, the groaning building being torn apart around them… Instead, his entire being was focused on the creature before him, and the damage it would do to all of its surroundings if it did not manage to control itself.

"You have five seconds," Meredith called, "Shut it down! Five…"

The Catalyst looked between the soldiers, its facial features phasing in and out of existence with every motion. It moved back along the counter, pressing itself against the wall.

"Don't do it!" Cullen warned, "It's a two-story drop. You'll injure yourself, and Maker knows how many others."

"Four…"

"Whatever the voices are telling you, it's not real. We can get you help —"

"Three…"

The figure's eyes, void of recognisable features, flicked to the people on the ground. Mettin restrained the man once more, pressing him to the ground with the heel of his boot. The woman made no attempt to get up but had closed her hands in prayer as the floor warped around her.

"Two…"

The distortion pulsed like a heart, flooding Cullen's mind with otherworldly visions of the grotesque. A grinning crowd without mouths stared at him from the edge of the abyss, tendrils of dread grasping to pull him across the threshold. He was stuck, engulfed in the sludge of memories and fantasy, his parents' echoing screams reverberating inside his skull. He shook his head, his finger tensing on the trigger and ready to end the waking nightmare, and focused all he had on the solidity of that broken kitchen counter melting out of existence.

"One."

Reality reappeared within a cleansing snap. The visions retreated to their unholy source, releasing their hold over mind and body. Plaster crumbled from the ceiling, filling the room with dust, as the walls shifted back to their original form with a sickening groan.

Cullen hastily searched the room, but the presence had vanished. His colleagues similarly looked around them, each of them wondering who had taken the shot. When it was clear no one had, they moved to the window.

The broken form of a young man lay sprawled atop a barred fence in the alley below, held in place by the sharp spikes that had pierced him through the back. His blood tricked down the rusted metal, turning brown as it seeped into the dust.

Meredith looked down on him for a moment, expelling a short breath through her nose, and holstered her weapon. "Arrest them," she ordered Karras, turning back towards the room. "Charge them with hiding a Catalyst."

Cullen stayed by the window, hearing the wails of the mother grow quiet as she and her husband were led away by the two lieutenants. Meredith made to follow them but halted at the apartment door.

"Cullen."

He rallied himself, pushing down the last of the memories stirred out of their slumber. "Yes, Captain?"

"We're done here."

Cullen nodded. To his relief, Meredith didn't cast him another glance as he followed her out of the building. He didn't want to look her in the eye, let her see his past clawing up inside of him, reaching for the surface. She'd taken a chance on him, expected him to perform. What had just happened was hardly the worst he'd been trained to anticipate, yet the whole situation was far too familiar. He was lost in thought, unaware of the doors creaking open after they passed by, their whispers following them down the halls. It was not until they'd exited the complex that Meredith turned around, nearly making him bump into her, and gave him an assessing look.

"It is unfortunate."

Cullen raised his head. "Ma'am?"

"He didn't back down," she said, nodding to the upper floor, "You tried, Cullen. If they won't listen to reason, there is nothing we can do."

He sighed. "I know, ma'am. It's just… he seemed young. Perhaps he panicked when I noticed him. He pulled out of it after he phased through the wall. If I —"

"If you hadn't noticed him, he'd probably have taken _us_ by surprise instead. His actions show he had no intention of turning himself in, was willing to put all the people in this neighbourhood at risk for his own selfish goals. Can you imagine what they were exposed to just now, without the means to resist?"

He swallowed. His own experience was harrowing enough. Even without seeing what it had done to his parents, civilians without training, he would have had no trouble imagining it.

Meredith nodded knowingly. "You did all that we ask of our officers, Cullen — protect the people. Who knows what damage he would have done in the long run, hiding out there? Grieve for a life lost, grieve for the parents who exposed everyone to that risk if you must, but do not let this linger. Understood?"

"… Yes, Captain."

"Good." She smiled briefly. "Now, I will contact the necessary authorities and deal with this situation. In the meantime —" She took the tracer out of her pocket and handed it to him. "Take this. Go check with transport, see if there is a record on either Hawke sibling leaving the planet."

"Yes, Captain," he confirmed. "And… thank you."

She nodded, the hint of warmth lingering for a moment until she turned and walked off in the direction of the shuttle. Cullen went the other way, adjusting the settings on the tracer back to the targeted signal. The device beeped slowly for a moment, then picked up speed as he wandered further down the alley.

He followed the signal as he headed in the general direction of the nearest transport station, focusing his mind away from the unfortunate event and the images it had conjured. Instead, the steady _beep_, picking up and dying down, led him on a winding trail that fully absorbed his thoughts.

A flash of activity near a street corner, disappearing and turning up again on the opposite side. Nothing for a long time as he wandered twice around the block, then a hint of it showing up on a nearby rooftop once more. She'd jumped from place to place, hiding when she needed, preserving her energy when she could. He followed the trail like a hound, minutes stretching into hours as he lost himself in connecting the dots one by one, mapping out the route his target had taken to get where she was now.

It wasn't likely she was still on the planet — large as it was, she'd have to know they'd find her eventually if she stayed put. Cullen tried putting himself in her shoes, and could only imagine he would have gotten onto a transport the first chance he got. Yet as he followed her trail, expecting it to head to where Meredith had wanted him to go next, he found himself veering away from it instead.

The beeping halted and, for a while, he thought he'd lost the signal altogether. He retraced his steps to the last location until he picked it up again, but promptly lost it when he moved further along the street. It was only when he returned a second time that he paused to assess his surroundings in more detail, and realised where his target gone.

The street had opened up from the maze of staunch buildings blocks. Instead, they lined the borders of a square piece of land, sectioned off from the road with an iron fence. He was standing next to a worn gate, beyond which a small parish lay within a deserted graveyard. Cullen pushed it open and pocketed the tracer as he followed the path. Something told him she hadn't vanished here but had instead walked the stepping stones as he was now.

A short search eventually brought him to a simple headstone. It was a slab of plain grey granite, with no distinguishing features. While others had pictures laid into them or elaborate texts to describe the deceased, this one merely carried a name. On the ground before it, claimed by the advancing weeds, lay a long wilted bushel of flowers.

Cullen knelt by Leandra Hawke's headstone and pictured the girl with the dark hair doing the same. Based on the records of her departure, she wouldn't have made it in time for the funeral. Instead, this was all she'd been able to do — to visit this impersonal headstone and leave her mother a token of affection. His mind went back to the family in her mother's house, and their terrible luck in choosing that place, on that day, to hide with a Catalyst.

He bowed his head and said a quiet prayer — for the woman lying beneath this headstone, for the young man hiding in her apartment and his parents who would now be taken to the local authorities. It lasted for a minute, in which he bid farewell to the feelings of guilt and concern Meredith had asked him to abandon, and he refocused on his mission. The gate cried softly as it swung shut behind him, and he followed his orders to find the nearest transport post.

The attendant looked bored as he approached the desk, slowly put down his coffee mug, and went to type up the information. Marian Hawke plus Enforcer escort had been registered when she arrived. Enforcer escort had left alone. Carver Hawke had gone before him, taking a shuttle to the orbiting travel gate, on schedule for a transfer to Orlais.

Cullen sighed deeply at the news and immediately dreaded having to relay it. He had no trouble picturing Meredith's response when he would. If the target had managed to avoid detection in the stark streets of industrial Ferelden, she'd be lost forever within the chaos of depravity and extravagance that had earned Orlais its nickname, the Pleasure Planet.

"Well played, Marian," he said under his breath, noting down the details of the shuttle he didn't doubt she'd stowed away on after her brother had boarded it. "Well played."


	12. Dog - I

Dog liked the new place. The first had been big, with many people and even more noise. There were too many thoughts and feelings, even if he didn't hear them like he used to. At times, Hawke — the name his person seemed to respond to — would disappear in a wall or under a floor while they were there. He didn't like that. While she continued that strange habit here as well, the spaces where she could vanish were smaller and, most of the time, he could know exactly where she was even if he couldn't see.

Most of the time, he would Sit in Chair, while she sat in hers. There wasn't much to look at, except for the blinking lights and moving dots, but she seemed to enjoy herself there. He was happy to see that, and he liked being beside her. Something bright hovered above her head, humming of home. He enjoyed that too.

She'd talk to him, or else make sounds to go along with those coming out of the metal box in the corner. At times she'd go quiet, either when she got tired, or her thoughts became lost in themselves. He'd observe her at these times, where her form seemed to drift out of Chair and into something else. He wouldn't have minded if she went before, for he'd loved to have her there with him. But he was here now, and he didn't know how to get back. So he'd bark when he saw her fade, which usually prompted Twinkle to make noise as well and help keep her here. Hawke would look a little startled and smile, before telling the small man to Pipe Down.

They got along quite well, her and Twinkle. He seemed to have a name as well, but Dog couldn't hear it very clearly whenever she said it. So Twinkle had stuck instead, as it continued to describe the small man well. His voice was rarely flat, always had a spring in it. At times he would read from his papers, things that Dog could not quite comprehend. Yet, even if the words themselves did not have meaning, he could hear his tone shift, conveying a world of emotion through nothing but his sound. Dog would listen intently, feeling the words rather than understanding them, and made his own noises in return. Sometimes Twinkle would make notes and go back to work. At others, he seemed quite satisfied with the response, which earned Dog a Snack from the Kitchen.

One day, an unpleasant noise made both Hawke and Twinkle tense in a way they had not done before. Dog jumped unto Chair and waited along with them, ears perked towards the new voice coming out of the box. It was sharp and strict, then became agitated. Dog felt the hairs on his back rise in response to the danger radiating from Hawke's presence beside him. Then she talked, and the voice went away. Both she and Twinkle quivered with relief.

They weren't the same after that. Hawke didn't answer Twinkle when he spoke again. Instead, she swivelled around in her chair, strapped on Dog's harness, and hurriedly reached for the light above their heads. "Brace yourself." She pulled it towards her and soon the light was inside of her as well, radiating out from her eyes and making her skin glow. Dog basked in the feeling of familiarity, even as a twinge of fear settled in its stomach. He had gone from there and, in his current form, he wasn't sure if it was good to go back.

Yet back he went, quite suddenly and without delay. Though it felt familiar, shaped by her being, it wasn't the same as what he'd left behind. He could see glimpses of a presence, wild, challenging, and engaging. Strong arms, sheltering and safe, suffocating as the sun went dark. Bright eyes, refusing to cry. Faceless figures looming high and low, voices distorted with deceit. It formed and faded, built itself up and broke apart. Then it vanished, and they were back.

Dog looked at his broad paws, turned around to see his stumpy tail, checking if it was all still there. Then he turned to her, as she pulled the Other Side away from her with a permeating _hiss_. She breathed shakily and braced herself against the ship.

"Where are we?" Twinkle asked quietly.

"The Belt," Hawke replied breathlessly, pressing some buttons and switches with deliberate _clicks_ and _flicks_. "Didn't want to risk lingering there."

"… What was that just now?"

"A shift. Your first one?"

"In a small ship like this… yeah. What — what did we see?"

"Let's not get into what I saw." She leaned back in her chair, pressing the palms of her hands against her eyes. Dog scooted as far towards her as his harness allowed and lay down to put his head on her leg. She glanced at him from behind her hands, smiled, and reached over to scratch his ear. "Though I'd be interested to hear your version. Your race is resistant to the Fade, no?"

"It was… weird," Twinkle said uncertainly. "Bright and… I don't know. Shapes, I suppose, but if I tried to look at anything closely, it would move away instead."

Hawke only hummed in reply.

"Are you okay?"

"Yeah… just need a moment. We're close to the target location. There's a lot of distortion — seems like there's a storm brewing somewhere out there, but we should be alright as long as we keep moving with the stream."

"Don't you need to rest?"

"Eventually. I'll be alright."

"Okay…"

Twinkle stayed in place, instead of going to his usual spot. He continued to look at her, brow furrowed. Dog angled his head. He wasn't sure what this feeling was, except that he hadn't seen it before. Twinkle bit his lip and looked away, then back at her. Hawke, meanwhile, had tossed one arm over her face and took deep breaths, seemingly oblivious to his continued attention.

Dog barked, making them both startle. "Mutt is going to give me a heart attack one of these days," Twinkle grumbled.

Hawke chuckled softly. "He's telling you to get on with it if you want to say something."

"Is he now? Very well… What is Project Code Vimmark?"

"…Ah." She dropped her arm and opened her eyes. "Not sure if now is the time. I should concentrate on the road."

"Hawke —"

"There's a file under my mattress. Should tell you everything you want to know."

He blinked. "Oh… Okay."

Twinkle got up and left the room. Dog craned his neck to watch him disappear down the Ladder. He growled softly — he didn't like it when they went down there. Hawke ruffled his head, drawing his attention back to her. "It's okay, bud," she said quietly. "It was going to come up at some point."

He wasn't sure what she was talking about, but she was rubbing the spot behind his head that made his leg move on its own. It was a strange feeling, but a good one.

Twinkle returned sometime later, more papers in his hand. He looked solemn — not twinkling at all — when Hawke turned her chair around to meet him.

"Malcolm Hawke…" he said slowly, tapping on the paper. "Your dad? Was he involved in this?"

"It would seem so. He died on the job years ago. The report stated he was shot after committing an act of treason. I was already in the Circle, so I don't know much of the details. My mom lost all benefits she would have been entitled to and was put up in some Fereldan slum." Hawke nodded to the file. "I found that hidden away after I went down for the funeral. She had been collecting information — as best as she could. I don't think she believed the official story."

"Clearly. Is that why you left?"

She nodded. "Long time coming... but I couldn't stay after that."

"Of course... So, what is Project Vimmark?"

"Your guess is as good as mine. All I know is that it's top secret. High-ranking officers are instructed on its existence. When you hear that name, you don't ask questions."

"I see. And you want to find out what happened?"

"I'd like to try."

Twinkle shortly breathed through his nose and smiled again. Dog panted happily in response — the air got much stuffier when he was serious.

"Well," Twinkle said, "I suppose this won't be our last adventure, will it?"

"I wouldn't ask you to get involved investigating Chantry business, V. I'll finish our contract and take this ship — that's enough."

He opened his mouth to make more noise, but another string of beeps pulled her away before he could. Hawke went to work on the clicky-buttons and flicky-switches, then looked out the window. A massive rock hung between several others, black and shining in the dark. Metal scaffolding ran along the exterior, part of it broken away from collisions and neglect. Dog retreated a little in his seat — it was the opposite of this place, of ear scratches, of Sitting beside Hawke in his Chair.

It was nothing good.

"But we can debate it later," Hawke continued, "There is your asteroid."


End file.
